A Work In Progress
by Ross7
Summary: A fire at an abandoned chemical refinery causes Station 51's crew problems beyond even their wildest dreams.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The E! characters don't belong to me. They have been borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.

**"A Work In Progress"**

By Ross7

It was approaching midnight at L.A. County Fire Station 51.

The dayroom was deserted—except for a dozing dog.

The dim light that filtered through the windows of the dorm illuminated six perfectly still forms.

Had that light been just a tad bit brighter, it might have been possible to make out the peaceful looks on the faces of the half-dozen dozing firefighters.

Suddenly, the Station's silence was shattered by a resounding alarm.

Six sets of eyes snapped wide-open, assisted by adrenaline. If they hadn't already been invisible, those peaceful looks would have instantly vanished.

Captain Hank Stanley and his men snapped bolt upright in their beds and began tossing blankets aside.

"**Station 51…Station 23…Battalion 14—"**

Station 51's A-Shift scrambled out of their bunks and into the bottom halves of their turnouts.

The firemen stomped their bare feet fully into their boots and began filing out of the dorm, fastening the snaps on their pant flaps and sliding suspenders up along the way.

* * *

The men reached their respective trucks and began scrambling aboard, donning their bulky coats and shiny black helmets before slipping easily into their assigned seats.

Their Captain crossed quickly over to the Call Station and snatched up a pen.

Their Engineer pressed the OPEN button on their Station's garage door and the heavy steel portal began grinding its way up.

"—**Structure fire…with explosions…1210 Mather Drive…Twelve-ten Mather Drive…Cross-streets Genevieve Avenue and Ames Boulevard…Time out: 23:07.**"

Stanley jotted down the address and then thumbed the transmit button on the radio mic' in his left hand. "Station 51, KMG—365," he calmly acknowledged and passed his Rescue Squad team a copy of the call slip.

Paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto watched and waited while their Captain jogged across the garage and climbed up into Engine 51's cab—with the rest of his crew.

Mike Stoker handed Hank his gear.

Station 51's Captain tugged his coat and helmet on and then settled into the leather seat beside his Engineer. "Let's go, Michael…" he lightly urged.

'Michael' flashed him back a bashful grin. He flicked the truck's lights and siren on. The pressure gauge on his instrument panel registered 120psi, so he released Big Red's air brakes and began easing the big rig forward.

A slight smile remained on the Engineer's face as he followed Squad 51 out onto the dimly lit four-lane street that ran in front of the Fire Station. It was a smile of deep satisfaction—the smile of a man who loved his job.

* * *

Less than six minutes later, Station 51 reached the incident scene.

The structure on fire turned out to be an abandoned chemical refinery—with about a quarter involvement. The four-storied, wooden-framed, steel-sided building was basically just a big empty shell.

The firemen were feeling pretty confident going in. After all, they'd rehearsed several different fire scenarios for the place and had studied the building's floor plans.

Now it was 'show time'. The time had finally arrived for all their advanced training to pay off…hopefully, with dividends!

* * *

Battalion 14's Chief motioned for Engine 51 to pull in behind 23's ladder truck.

Squad 51 was waved over to the far end of a large paved parking lot, where a man in a uniform sat, clutching an oxygen mask tightly to his face.

Stanley pulled the HT from his coat pocket and informed L.A. of their arrival. Then he stepped down from their truck and approached Station 23's Captain. "What do we got, Greg?"

Greg Mattson shouted a few final orders out to his men and then turned to face his friend and fellow Captain. "The watchman 'claims' that the 'air' just 'started burning'. I don't know how much of that is believable, though. You kin smell the booze on his breath from five feet away."

"We dealing with dust, or gas?" Hank further inquired. He was anxious to learn what had caused the explosions.

Mattson shrugged. "The watchman 'claims' the place wasn't dusty and, if it is gas, he 'claims' that he has no idea where it could be coming from. According to him, the refinery has recently changed ownership. Apparently, the place is in the process of being cleaned down."

"What are they cleaning it with?"

"He 'claims' they're just using plain old _water_, but I told my guys to keep their masks in place—just in case."

Hank gave his friend and informant a grateful nod and then went trotting over to where the Incident Commander stood, passing out assignments. "Where do you want us, Chief?"

Since there hadn't been any further explosions, Battalion 14's Chief chose to make a direct assault. "You'll be going in," he announced and aimed the powerful beam of his flashlight at one of the blueprints in his hands. "Station 23 will be going in on the ground floor. I want you and your crew to take up a position here…" he paused to point a finger, "…in this loft. Captain Jansen reports the fire is spreading rapidly—from rafter to rafter. I want your crew to hit the roof from the inside. If you can halt the fire extension up there, we should be able keep the blaze contained to this area of building…" he redirected his pointing digit.

Stanley acknowledged their Station's assignment with a slight nod. "Any word on what caused the explosions earlier?"

"Not yet, but I've requested a HAZMAT team and notified the lab. Nobody is to enter that building without their SCBA on—and pressurized. Understood?"

Heck! With this building's history, that went without saying! Hank managed another slight nod. Then he turned and went trotting back over to where his Engine crew stood—with hose in hands—patiently awaiting his orders. The Captain didn't keep them waiting any longer.

* * *

Less than five minutes later, Hank Stanley found himself perched midway up the fifty-foot ladder that led to the refinery's storage loft. His legs were locked into the steel rungs, leaving his gloved hands free to grasp and support the enormous weight of the charged line of fire hose he was passing up the ladder.

* * *

Another twenty-five feet above him, Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez were advancing that charged line down the narrow catwalk that ran alongside of the loft.

Kelly was manning the nozzle, dousing every flame in sight and soaking every rafter.

Lopez was supporting their charged line's weight with both of his arms. As they inched along, he kept his right shoulder shoved up against the nozzle man's bunker-suited butt and helped Chet bear the tremendous backpressure from the spray.

The pair reached the end of the narrow walkway and immediately reversed roles.

* * *

A Mayfair ambulance pulled up and parked beside Squad 51. Its back doors popped open and an attendant hopped out. "Somebody request a ride to Rampart?"

John Gage glanced up from their smoke inhalation victim. "Yes they did, Denny, but it took you guys so long to get here, the patient changed his mind."

Dennis Altmann studied the paramedic's face carefully, but couldn't tell if John was joking or not. So, he turned to Roy.

DeSoto nodded. "He refuses to let us treat him. Claims he's okay now and doesn't want to go in."

John frowned down at their stubborn victim and hesitated to hand him the release form. "Look, Mr. Valdeen, you took in a lot of smoke. You may feel fine now, but there could be complications later on. You really should go to the hospital and let the doctors check you out…"

The night watchman shook his head.

Gage emitted a frustrated gasp and reluctantly gave their ex-patient the release form.

Valdeen signed the form and passed the paramedic back his clipboard.

"Gage! DeSoto!"

The paramedics heard Captain Mattson calling them and turned in his direction.

They watched as two members of 23's crew came out of the refinery, carrying another victim.

Roy spread a fresh drop sheet onto the pavement.

The firemen laid their burden gently down upon it and then went right back inside.

The watchman's face filled with recognition—and shock. "I thought he'd gone home hours ago!"

Gage glanced up from their bio-phone. "You know this man?"

Valdeen nodded. "He's one of the workmen who've been cleaning the refinery. The new owners wanna switch it from chemicals to oil, or something. They've been hosing the place down for a week. Today, they were flushing the floor vats out with water."

Gage stiffened. "_They_?"

The watchman nodded. "Him and another gu—" he stopped speaking suddenly and stared off across the lot. "That's their van. I—I didn't notice it earlier."

John exchanged a grim glance with his partner and then got quickly to his feet.

* * *

"Chief!"

Chief Knowles turned to acknowledge whomever it was that had hailed him. It was one of 51's paramedics.

"From what the watchman just told us, we may have another victim. That guy's buddy may still be inside somewhere," the fireman finished and pointed a finger at a body lying on a blanket.

"All right. I'll have 23's men make another sweep," Battalion 14's Chief promised and raised his HT to his lips.

* * *

Lopez and Kelly gazed up at the thoroughly drenched and steadily dripping rafters over their heads, looking quite pleased with themselves. There wasn't a flicker of a flame to be seen anywhere! The pair exchanged a couple of 'mission accomplished' thumbs up signs and started spraying their way back over to the storage loft.

* * *

Marco reached the end of the catwalk and came to an abrupt halt. Something was blocking the way—er, somebody, judging by the boots he felt beneath his groping gloved hand.

Chet proceeded to bump into him.

Lopez knelt there, pinned between Kelly and the person wearing the work boots. He looked up just in time to see a raised booze bottle coming towards his head at a rather high rate of speed. Instinctively, he raised an arm to ward off the attack. "Ahhh!" he cried out in agony as he caught the blow full force on his raised wrist. The bottle didn't break. Marco wasn't so sure about his wrist bones. One thing he was pretty positive about, his assailant must've struck a nerve, because his entire arm had suddenly gone numb. His right arm would no longer move and his left hand could no longer control the hose. He felt the nozzle slip from his grip.

Kelly heard Lopez cry out in pain. The next thing he knew, the nozzle was whipping wildly about and he was left alone to combat the spray's tremendous backpressure. He was so busy trying to handle the hose that he didn't see the bottle coming at him. Chet felt something hard smack him on the side of his helmet and heard the sound of glass shattering. The blow jarred his brain and caused little white lights to momentarily dance before his dazed eyes. Then the 'lights' went out and he had the sudden sensation that he was…falling.

Lopez had tried to grab Kelly with the one appendage that was still functioning, but his gloved fingers couldn't get a good enough grip. He watched in horror as his collapsing friend slipped beneath the catwalk's protective side grate and then dropped out of sight. His already grimacing face filled with even greater anguish. "CA-AP!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, but his cry for help was muffled by his facemask. He whipped his helmet and mask off and turned toward the ladder. Marco managed to turn around just in time to watch their assailant get blasted off his booted feet by the wild spray of their dropped fire hose.

The guy sailed over the storage loft's guard railing and then fell to the concrete floor, fifty feet below.

Marco grimaced for the third time in as many minutes. Surely, this had to be a nightmare! None of this could possibly be really happening! Lopez pushed past the pain and grief—and disbelief—and attempted, once again, to get his Captain's attention. "CA-AP! CHET FELL!"

TBC

Author's note: The LA County Fire Department uses 24 hour military time. There is no a.m. or p.m.. The 24 hour clock day begins with 00:01, or one minute after midnight. To figure out what the normal time is, simply subtract 12 from any times greater than 13:00. For instance, the time given in this story is 23:07. When you subtract 12 from that, you get 11:07 p.m.. I just wanted to share this info, since I have always found military time so dang confusing. :P


	2. Chapter 2

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Two**

Midway up the ladder to the loft, Hank Stanley got smacked—hard—on the helmet by a falling fire hose. "What the—?" He released his hold on the charged line and gazed up at the catwalk in confusion.

Somewhere to his left, he'd just heard the sound of wood splintering—closely followed by a muffled 'splash!'. Somewhere to his right, something else must've fallen, for he had also heard a dull 'splat!'—and now, the hose! "What the heck is goin' on up there?" he wondered aloud.

Then, as if in response to his inquiry, Hank heard Marco calling him—and heard him say that Chet…_fell_! The Captain experienced—what his paramedics would undoubtedly have diagnosed as—a cardiac arrhythmia. He whipped the radio from his coat pocket. "HT 51 to Engine 51…"

"SOMEONE ELSE FELL TOO, CA—"

"—**Stoker here. Go ahead, Cap…**" his Engineer suddenly cut in.

"Mike, shut down the pump! Then, I want you to don your gear and get in here! Bring some rope and some security belts—oh, and, if our guys are still around, bring one or both of them in with you!"

"**Aye, aye, Cap!**"

Hank lowered the radio and looked up. "Marco! You okay up there?"

"Yeah, Cap!" came back Marco's muffled reply. He had wisely replaced his air mask. "But I can't get my right arm to move! I don't think I can climb down!"

"Sit tight, pal! Somebody'll be up to get you in just a few minutes!" Hank lifted the radio to lips. "HT 51 to Battalion 14…"

"**Battalion 14. Go ahead, Hank…**"

"Chief, I've got three victims needing medical assistance. Two are Code I's—one from a fall, the other has suffered an injury to his right arm. The condition of the third victim is…unknown."

"**10-4, Hank! Help is on the way!**"

Stanley pocketed his hand-held and headed down the ladder. Along the way, he fervently prayed that Chester B. Kelly was the 'splash!' and NOT the 'splat!' that he had heard.

* * *

Gage had just seen his partner—and their patient—off in the ambulance, when his Captain's call to Engine 51 came across the Squad's radio.

He'd removed a couple coils of rope, some safety belts, and a TRAUMA box from the Squad's side compartments, and was pulling his own air-pack's chest straps up snug, when his Captain's call to Battalion 14 came through. The paramedic stiffened and his blood ran cold.

Mike Stoker came trotting up just then and the two of them exchanged looks of abject horror.

The pair picked the requested rescue gear up and started heading for the refinery at breakneck speed…well, as fast as their cumbersome boots and bulky bunkers would allow, anyway.

* * *

If 'rapid ladder descent' were an Olympic event, Captain Hank Stanley would have been standing on the medal podium! In just seconds, his boots hit the refinery's concrete floor. An instant later, his flashlight was in his hand and its beam was searching the immediate area…to his right.

Speaking of hitting the refinery's concrete floor…Hank had seen the…remains…of 'jumpers' before. Still, he was sickened by the sight his light's probing beam revealed. If he hadn't been so relieved to find that the bleeding and broken—and lifeless—body was NOT that of his friend's, the gruesome sight would have caused him to 'toss his cookies'. He exhaled a silent sigh of relief and quickly turned his head—and his light's beam—away.

* * *

There were five 50,000gallon steel-lined storage vats sunk into the refinery's ground floor. Hank ran his flashlight over the first one to his left. There was a small hole in its wood-slatted cover—right near the very edge of the vat! 'Talk about the 'luck of the Irish'!' Hank mused as he dropped to his knees and aimed his light into the hole's jagged opening. The vats were all fifty feet deep. Luckily, this one seemed to have some water in it. The surface of that water was barren of any floating bodies however, and seemed perfectly undisturbed. "Damn it, Kelly! You can't survive the _fall_…and then _drown_!"

* * *

Gage and Stoker literally stumbled upon the missing workman's body.

It didn't take a paramedic to see that the poor fellow was dead. The guy had, what was grimly referred to in the medical community as, 'injuries incompatible with life'.

The pair heard their Captain curse and swung the beams of their lights in his direction.

Their Commander's next words: 'Kelly' 'fall' 'drown', were all it took for John to get the 'gist' of things.

* * *

Before his Captain could even say, "Hold on, pal! Where the hell do you think you're going?", Gage had stripped and slipped through the little jagged hole that had been busted in the vat cover's wooden slats.

Not that Hank EVER had any intention of saying those words.

John dangled from the vat cover just long enough to fill his lungs with air. Then he held on to his breath and let go of the wooden slats.

* * *

The paramedic plunged into the murky water thirty feet below. The frigid liquid filled his nostrils and the cold took his held breath away. Somehow, he managed to fight his way to the surface. John stayed there just long enough to snort the water from his nose. Then he sucked in another deep breath and dove.

The diver crisscrossed the vat a few times, blindly groping about, but could find nothing. He burst to the surface just as his lungs were about to. The rescuer sucked in some more air and dove again—this time, going much deeper.

In fact, John didn't stop until he touched bottom. He swam along the floor of the vat, waving his rapidly numbing limbs through the icy blackness that surrounded him. Suddenly, his right hand struck something—something besides just the other side of the vat. He groped further and found an arm. He grabbed onto the motionless body it was attached to and tried towing it towards the surface.

No matter how hard he tried, John just couldn't make any headway.

Kelly's facemask and helmet were missing, but his heavy air tank bottle was still in place.

Gage unbuckled the air-pack's waist belt and began fumbling for the clamps on its chest straps. His frozen fingers finally got them to release.

The SCBA fell from his friend's shoulders and landed on the vat's bottom with a dull metal 'thunk'.

John latched onto the back of Chet's bulky coat and started struggling towards the surface again.

Even without the heavy air bottle, the fireman still had an incredibly difficult time dragging his waterlogged buddy up from the bottom of the vat.

Just when John thought they would never reach the surface, two tiny beacons of light appeared—two small rays of hope.

Gage got a sudden surge of adrenaline and swam towards those lights with renewed energy.

* * *

The first thing John heard, when his face finally broke the water's surface, were the cheers of his shift-mates.

If his lungs didn't hurt so much, if his brain wasn't experiencing oxygen deprivation and if he wasn't positively dreading what he might find when his numb fingers felt for Kelly's corotid, the paramedic might have been tempted to join them. Instead, he gave his sopping wet head a quick shake, opened his mouth wide and began gulping in air.

The oxygen brought him back from the brink of unconsciousness, but he remained pretty light-headed. So he just kept right on gulping and gasping and coughing…and treading water, until he finally felt like he wasn't going to pass out at any moment.

As soon as he had enough air in him to keep him going, he braced Kelly's body against the curved outer wall of the vat, opened his airway, pinched his nostrils shut and then tried to get enough air into him to get him going—period!

Finally, the moment he'd been dreading arrived. The paramedic halted his AR and forced himself to press two of his half-frozen fingers over the corotid artery in his friend's extended neck. John's vision blurred and he choked back of sob of relief. It wasn't very strong and it wasn't very steady, but damn, Chet had a pulse!

Before resuming his mouth-to-mouth, Gage glanced up into those two beams of light. His grin told the guys what he couldn't spare the air, or the time, to say.

This time, his shift-mate's cheers were drowned out by the sound of a K-12.

* * *

Sawdust continued to sift down and the paramedic continued to give his drowning victim AR.

"C'mon, Chet!" he encouraged, speaking between breaths. "Yah gotta breathe…for me, man!…Give me a break…will yah!…I'm hyperventilating…here!" The hyperventilating fireman heard a 'clink' and glanced up.

Reinforcements were arriving.

Stoker had stripped down to his skivvies and was rapidly descending upon their position with a Stokes. "How is he?" the Engineer anxiously inquired.

"His pulse is," Gage began, again speaking between breaths, "a little stronger…but he still hasn't…started breathin'…on his own."

Mike's dangling legs finally entered the frigid water. He gasped involuntarily, as the cold caught his breath away.

"Not exactly…bath-water…is it," Gage commented, upon hearing him gasp.

The Engineer flashed the paramedic back a rare smile. "Not exactly." The stretcher drew level with the water's surface. He reached up and gave its rope a tug. He tugged twice on his own safety line and was rewarded with some more slack.

"Get his gear off…for me…will yah?" John requested, as Mike swam over, towing the Stokes.

The Engineer undid the clips on Kelly's turnout coat and carefully slid it off. Then he unsnapped the flap on Chet's bunker pants and slipped the suspenders from his shoulders.

The unconscious fireman's water-filled boots immediately began to sink, taking the bottom half of his turnouts with them.

"That's more like it!" Gage exclaimed, as his burden became a good fifty pounds lighter. "Now we're gonna need…a C-collar…and the backboard." The paramedic gave his patient another breath of air.

Suddenly, Kelly retched.

His rescuer was rewarded with a mouthful of vomitus. Gage grimaced as the nasty-tasting stuff filled his mouth. He immediately swung his head to the side and started spitting—and gagging.

The paramedic could watch people puke, he could pick up puke, he could even tolerate being puked on!

Hell, none a' that bothered him a bit.

The one thing he couldn't stomach was having his mouth used as an emesis basin.

John kept right on gagging until he finally tossed up the contents of his own tummy.

He then dipped his head down, scooped some water up, rinsed his mouth out—and went right back to work.

The paramedic cleared Kelly's airway and then resumed AR.

* * *

Chester B.'s bruised brain gradually began registering information again. The first message it received was that his head hurt—something awful! His body was all wet—and extremely cold! His nose was being tweaked—very hard! Somebody kept kissing him—on the mouth! Oh yeah—and his lungs were feeling 'gurgly'—really _really_ 'gurgly'! He really needed to cough! And so he did.

"Ahh-ahh!" he cried out in agony, as a sharp, searing pain suddenly tore through the right side of his chest. "Ohh-ohh!" he cried out a second time, as an even more excruciating pain shot down his right leg. The pain took what little breath he had away and somebody began kissing him again—on the mouth! He moaned and tried shoving whoever it was away. "Knock it off…will yah!" he gasped. "An' let go a' my nose!"

John obligingly released Chet's nostrils. "I…uh…believe respirations are now spontaneous," he declared and turned to swap grins with Mike.

"Sounds more like complaining is spontaneous," Stoker came back and their grins broadened.

Mike slid a backboard under Chet's bobbing body and began loosely securing the straps.

John got their drowning victim's oxygen set up and flowing and then examined him for other possible injuries. A task not easily accomplished whilst treading water and suffering from hypothermia.

Kelly squelched back a cough and squinted up at all the bright lights overhead. He seemed to be either looking down a long tunnel…or up a deep well. "Where the heck am I?…What the heck am I doing here?…And why was somebody kissing me just now?" he demanded between gasped breaths.

Gage finished his initial assessment of Kelly's physical condition and turned to Stoker. "Did you bring any traction splints down with you?"

The Engineer nodded. "You want a long or a short?"

"Short."

Mike passed him a C-collar and then turned toward the Stokes.

The paramedic applied the cervical collar, along with some sage advice. "Lie still. The sooner we kin get you packaged, the sooner we kin all get the hell outta here. I'm tired a' treading water. Now, are you hurting anywhere besides your head, your right ribcage and your right leg?"

Kelly was in a whole lot a' hurt…waaaay too much hurt! His brain needed a distraction. He needed to give it something else to focus on—something besides pain.

Chet's favorite pastime, in the whole wide world, was dreaming and scheming up ways to drive John Gage bonkers. So he determined that he would use that as his distraction. "Gage…was that you…kissing me…on the mouth?"

Gage managed an amused gasp. "I wasn't kissing you. I was giving you mouth-to-mouth."

"Why?"

"Because you were drowning."

Kelly vaguely remembered the fire. The last thing he recalled was crawling along a catwalk fifty feet off the ground. How does somebody drown…when they're fifty feet in the air? "I don't believe you."

"Okay. Have it your way. You weren't drowning," Gage conceded. One should never argue with someone suffering from a head trauma.

A smug smile appeared on his patient's pain-filled face. "I knew you were kissing me."

Gage managed another amused gasp.

Mike handed John the traction splint.

The paramedic's expression suddenly sobered. "Chet…I have to splint your leg…and it's gonna hurt like hell."

"Sometimes we hurt…the one's we love," Kelly quickly came back.

Gage managed his third amused gasp in as many minutes.

Chet's pursed lips formed a wry grin—which vanished the moment the paramedic started pulling on his busted leg. "Uhh-humm!" he groaned, through teeth clenched tightly in pain.

John fastened the splint's Velcro straps in place. He snugged the backboard's straps up as well and then turned to Mike. "Okay, let's get him outta here!"

Stoker tugged twice on the dangling Stokes. The stretcher was lowered into the water. They floated the backboard into it and then started strapping everything down.

Satisfied that the stretcher's precious cargo was secure, John gave its line a final jerk.

They watched as it slowly began its ascent.

John exhaled an audible sigh of relief and began shivering uncontrollably.

Stoker removed his security belt and passed it to the shaking paramedic. "You first."

Gage flashed him back a grateful grin. "Th-Thanks, M-M-ike." He tried to attach the belt to his waist, but his frozen fingers were no longer responsive.

Mike reached out, buckled it for him and then gave the rope a tug.

The paramedic was pulled up out of the icy water and then hoisted up out of the vat.

Moments later, the line was re-lowered. Stoker secured himself to it and was hauled up out of the storage tank, as well.

**TBC**

Author's note: AR stands for artificial respirations. In other words, mouth-to-mouth…or, as Kelly calls it, kissing…on the mouth! Remember: One should never argue with someone who has suffered a head trauma. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Three**

Marco, who now sported a sling on his right arm and a splint on his right wrist, met Chet's stretcher at the door. His left hand latched onto his friend's and, this time, it didn't let go.

* * *

Four guys from 23's carried Kelly's Stokes over to a waiting ambulance.

Lopez stayed at his injured friend's side the entire time and filled him in on what had transpired.

Chet's backboard was transferred from the Stokes to a gurney and his Captain covered him with some nice, warm blankets.

The shivering man shot his considerate Commander a look of undying gratitude.

Hank flashed him back a smile that was even warmer than the blankets. Then he rested his right hand on his friend's shaking wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I thought for sure that it was gonna take an entire case of Super Glue to put you back together, pal!" he confessed, his voice shaking a bit itself, with emotion. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like I just got my head bashed in with a booze bottle…then fell fifty feet from a catwalk…busted my ribs and broke my leg on a wooden grate…and nearly drowned in twenty feet of water," Chet told him truthfully. He'd intended for his comment to be taken lightly, but it backfired.

Instead of smiling, his fellow firefighters were now exchanging grim glances.

Stanley took a stab at lightening the mood. "Yeah. Well…" he gave Kelly's wrist a couple of sympathetic pats. "Fortunately for us, you don't _look_ as shitty as you _feel_," he teased, and succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his obviously hurting young friend—and the rest of the guys as well.

Kelly's amused look quickly turned to one of confusion. "I don't get it, Marco. Why did that guy wanna kill **us**? I mean, **we're** the _good_ guys."

Lopez stooped beside the gurney and placed his one good hand back down on his shift-mate's. "I don't get it, either, Chet. I'm just glad you landed on that grate, and that the water broke your fall."

"Too bad that wasn't all it broke," Kelly glumly grumbled as his gurney was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

* * *

Gage and Stoker came sloshing, swishing and shuffling up. They'd redonned their turnout gear. They sloshed because their boots were collecting the water that was draining from their super-saturated shorts and t-shirts. They swished because the bulky legs of their bunker pants were strafing each other. They shuffled because their limbs were still so incredibly stiff from being so unbelievably cold.

"Nice work, gentlemen!" their Captain commended, and gave each _gentleman_'s ice-cold hand a warm shaking.

"Th-Thanks, C-Cap!" the shivering pair simultaneously replied.

Hank's face filled with concern. "You two okay?"

"J-Just C-Cold," the two men assured him, once again speaking in perfect unison.

The three of them exchanged grins.

Gage's grin vanished and his gaze shifted to the back of the ambulance. "C-Cap, if it's ok-kay with y-you, I'd l-like to r-ride i-in w-with him…"

"That's fine with me," Stanley assured him. "Just, eh, promise you won't try to start any IVs or anything," he added conditionally, and motioned to the paramedic's appendages, which were shaking uncontrollably.

"Aye-aye, C-Cap!" John promised. The fireman flashed his understanding boss a grateful grin and climbed up into the back of the ambulance.

* * *

Gage glanced down at the gurney. Squad 16's paramedics already had Chet's IV established and, judging by the open drug box and all the debris, they even had his meds onboard.

Mark Griesen passed his shivering colleague his paramedic's assessment kit and a stethoscope. "He's all yours," he announced and waved an arm in their patient's direction.

Gage's mouth fell open.

"We've already worked our 'magic' here," Griesen continued before John could speak. "All you gotta do is sit back…relax…and," he exchanged a 'look' with Kelly, "_enjoy_ the ride. Besides, THEY say, two's company…three's a crowd." He saw Gage's jaw dropping open again. "Don't worry, Big John! If you need us for anything, just give us a call. We'll be right behind you." Mark slapped his still-stunned associate's right front shoulder twice. Then he jumped down, spun around and slammed the ambulance's back doors shut.

Griesen released the grin he'd been suppressing and gave the doors a couple a' slaps as well, before climbing up into Squad 16's cab with his equally amused looking partner.

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that ambulance…" Dave Duran stated rather wistfully, and their grins broadened.

* * *

When he'd heard that—on account of his head trauma—he would have to endure the broken-bone-jarring ride in to Rampart without any morphine, Kelly had managed to convince Squad 16's paramedics to allow him to 'self-medicate'.

The pair hadn't needed much convincing. Once their patient explained how thinking up ways to torment his favorite pigeon kept his mind from concentrating on how much his bashed in head, busted leg and caved in ribcage were killing him, the two had eagerly signed on.

* * *

Gage closed his gaping jaws and slowly turned around.

Chet saw the 'dear caught in a car's headlights' look on John's face and smiled. Even through the agony of the now in motion ambulance's first lurch, he had somehow managed to smile. His pain med' was onboard.

The paramedic braced himself against one of the now moving vehicle's side walls. He may have looked like a 'deer caught in a car's headlights', but he felt more like a 'fly trapped in a spider's web'. "T-Two's c-company? Th-Three's a c-crowd?" he nervously repeated, as he crouched beside the spider's gurney to gather a fresh set of vitals. "P-Please t-tell m-me that y-you d-didn't bring _th-those g-guys_ in on it?"

If not for the IV that was inserted in his wrist, Chet would have placed his left hand on the paramedic's bent knee. As it was, he had to settle for just gazing up at him with big doe eyes. "Sorry, babe. I didn't know you wanted to keep our relationship a secret."

The vertical firefighter's face filled with an expression that was equal parts grimace and grin and the sound that emitted from his throat was a cross between a sob and a chuckle.

Chet noticed one of the attendants staring at Gage's shaking hands. "Bad case a' the jitters."

The paramedic's appendages were trembling so violently he could barely place the tips of the stethoscope in his ears.

"I'm the first _real_ victim he's ever worked on," Kelly explained further.

The attendant's already elevated eyebrows arched even higher.

"Y-You're UNreal, Ch-Chet," John quickly corrected. "UNr-real."

The ambulance attendants glanced at each other and grinned. Nightshifts were generally long and boring, so they were always appreciative of any entertainment.

* * *

"How's the arm?" Captain Stanley inquired, as he came stepping up to the other injured member of his Engine crew.

"Took a dandy crack on the wrist," Lopez replied, "but I don't think anything's broken. The guys from 16's wanted to take me in and have it x-rayed. I told them I'd have the doctor take a look at it…when I bring the Squad over to Rampart to pick up Roy and John..." he tacked on rather tentatively.

'...and check up on Chet,' Hank silently added. The Captain couldn't help but smile. "You sure you feel up to driving?"

Marco returned the smile and nodded. "I think I just got what we used to refer to, back in my high school football days, as a 'stinger'. It's already starting to wear off. See?" He raised his previously paralyzed right arm and wriggled the fingers on his previously immobile right appendage—as proof.

Stanley's smile broadened. "Okay. But, be careful!"

"Aye-aye, Cap!" Lopez promised and turned to leave.

"Hold it!" His Captain ordered.

Marco halted and turned back to face his boss.

"What the heck happened up there?"

"We had the fire out and were just about to start down, when that guy," Lopez pointed to a Stokes bearing a blanket-covered body, "tried to part our hair with an empty booze bottle! He cracked me on the wrist and got Chet up alongside a' the head—knocked him cold! That's why he fell. I couldn't get a grip on his coat with my glove on. The spray from the loose hose knocked him off his feet," he aimed his index finger at the cadaver again, "and that's why he fell." He stared sadly off across the lot. "What was that guy doing up there? And, why did he wanna kill us?"

"M-Maybe he was d-drunk?" Mike Stoker offered.

"Yeah," Marco agreed. "At least, I hope he was drunk." He gave the refinery a 'good riddance' parting glance and then climbed in behind the wheel of the Squad. "A booze bottle!" he grumbled beneath his breath. "¡Madre de Dios! ¡Qué noche!"

Stanley and Stoker watched their grumbling amigo drive off.

Hank turned back to the refinery in time to see a HAZMAT team and some LACFD lab technicians enter the building. "Yeah," he solemnly agreed. "And it ain't over yet…"

* * *

"You must a' hit your head pretty hard," John determined upon completing a neurological exam of his patient. He flicked his penlight off and frowned. "Your pupils are slightly unequal."

"**I** didn't hit my head," Kelly quickly clarified. "It was some fireman-hating guy with a booze bottle. As for my eyes…they always get that way…when you're around."

Gage's frown turned upside-down. "Unreal…" he muttered to himself. "Unreal…" He checked the flow rate on his friend's IV. "I'm just about defrosted. How 'bout you? Are you warm enough?"

That last question was just begging for a comeback, but Chet saw the look of deep concern on his caretaker's face and decided to play this one straight. "Yeah."

The paramedic covered his patient's left hand with his and patted it reassuringly. "It won't be long now…"

Kelly couldn't think of anything to say. So he closed his eyes and started to drift off.

"Sorry," John gave Chet's shoulder a gentle shake, "but I can't let you do that."

His patient's eyes slowly fluttered open. "Love means…never having to say…you're sorry…" he and his words began drifting off again.

The paramedic gave his patient's shoulder another shake. "Chet?…Che-et?"

"Not now, Gage," Kelly grumbled sleepily. "I have a headache…"

John gasped in both exasperation and amusement and ran a hand back through his still sopping wet hair. "It can't be anything compared to the one I'm gonna have, if anyone ever takes any of these off-color remarks of yours seriously."

Chet's eyes snapped open. "Off-color? What d'yah mean 'off-color'? Doesn't what happened back there mean anything to you?"

Gage could see the attendants swapping 'looks' in the rear-view mirror. "He's just joking," he assured them. Then he turned back to Kelly and glared menacingly down at him. "Are-ent you…"

Chet feigned shock and disbelief. "That's all our relationship is to you? A joke?" He paused, pretending to be deeply hurt. "Oh, Johnny…you cruel _cruel_ boy. I fear you have been toying with my affections…" his eyes drooped shut and he began to doze off again.

John reluctantly reached out and gave him a not so gentle nudge. "Keep your eyes OPEN!" he sternly ordered, "and your mouth SHUT!"

Kelly's eyes obediently fluttered open and he batted them up at Johnny-boy a few times. "I just love the way your eyes flash…when you're angry."

Gage gasped in complete and utter exasperation. He buried his face in both hands and then stared out at his patient through the slats in his splayed fingers.

Chet's lips formed a wry smile. His unequal pupils sparkled with mischief.

The paramedic flashed his infuriating friend a wry smile of his own and began taking a fresh set of vitals. "Unreal…"

**TBC**

Author's note: "¡Madre de Dios! ¡Qué noche!" translated means: "Mother of God! What a night!" in Spanish. Thanks to Jo B., for helping me get it right! :D


	4. Chapter 4

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Four**

The ambulance bearing the injured firefighter backed up to the entrance to Rampart's Emergency Receiving.

Squad 16 backed in beside it.

Both vehicles' front seats were quickly vacated.

The attendants swung the ambulance's back doors open, released the lock on its occupant's stretcher, slid it out and extended its wheels.

John jumped down with an IV bag clutched in his raised right hand, and accompanied the gurney as it was guided inside.

Mark Griesen and his partner tagged along. "How was the ride in?"

"There are entirely too many potholes between here and that refinery," Gage glumly replied. "But he handled the trip pretty well. His vitals remain sta—."

"—He wasn't inquiring about the patient's ride in," Dave Duran interrupted. "He was asking about yours."

"Yeah…about that. I don't know how to thank you guys…but don't worry. I'm sure I'll think of _something_."

The three paramedics swapped slight smiles.

* * *

Roy DeSoto met his shift-mates just inside the ER's entrance. "They're waiting for him in One!" he informed the entire group. Then, in a voice that was meant for his partner's ears only, he proceeded to inquire, "How is he?"

"He's in a _lot_ of pain," John informed him, speaking in an equally low voice. "His right leg and ribcage are a mess. He's got a hematoma behind his left ear and his pupils are slightly unequal, but he's remained conscious and coherent since he came to, his lungs are relatively clear and his pressure's been holding steady."

Roy looked more than a little relieved to hear that.

Their little procession reached the designated treatment room.

DeSoto watched as both his injured friend and his partner disappeared behind its door.

Mark Griesen stopped Dr. Benjamin Tyler just as he was about to enter the room. "Doc, we've got another injured firefighter driving 51's Squad in. He should be here shortly."

"What's his problem?"

"His right wrist received a blow severe enough to cause temporary paralysis of his right hand and arm."

"All right. Stick him in Three. Dr. Herron'll have a look at him…when he finishes up in Four."

* * *

Following a lot of 'poking and prodding' and 'x-raying and examining', Chester B. Kelly was finally wheeled over to the cast room.

His paramedic friend accompanied him.

John watched and waited while the cast was painstakingly applied. He then borrowed a writing utensil from one of the orderlies and began carving a brief message into the cast's fresh, and so still unhardened, plaster. He added a little _something_ along with his signature, and then took a step back to admire his handiwork.

The cast's owner had watched the 'artist at work' through drooping eyes. "You about finished…turnin' my leg…into a piece of…modern sculpture?"

The paramedic wiped the plaster from the tip of his borrowed pen and passed it back to its owner. "Yup!"

"I suppose…it would have been too…_normal_…for you to just…'sign' it."

"I was going to just 'sign' it, but I can't wait for it to dry. Dr. Herron must be finished with Marco by now. I gotta go back to work."

Apparently, Kelly didn't care much for the idea of being left behind, 'cuz that 'deer caught in a car's headlights' look suddenly filled his own mustached face.

Gage saw the look and gripped the panicking patient's right wrist reassuringly. "Every hospital follow up we get, either me or Roy'll be up to check on you," he promised. "In the meantime…I know this place doesn't provide a very 'restful' atmosphere, but _try_ to get some anyway. Who knows? You keep passing your neuros, THEY might even start letting you sleep longer than a whole whopping fifteen minutes at a time."

Kelly flashed his friend a smile that told him he appreciated both the promise and the sarcasm. "Thanks, man…for everything."

Gage flashed him back a grin that said he appreciated the gratitude, and then passed along a little reminder. "Hey, I didn't do anything for you…that you wouldn't a' done for me. Remember, **try** to get some rest…and I'll be back before you know it." With that repeated promise, and a wave, John was gone.

Kelly suddenly noticed that the orderlies were grinning down at his right leg. "What'd he write?"

"It sa-ays:" one of them obligingly replied, "Chet, your mustache tickles."

The patient was both appalled and amused by the paramedic's little note.

"There's more," the other orderly continued. "Just below that, he carved a big heart…and then he signed it: 'Johnny'."

The Master Prankster couldn't help but grin. 'Good one, Gage…' he silently conceded. The fireman with the tickly mustache then immediately made the two still-grinning guys scrape off everything but the prank perpetrator's name.

* * *

RN Cheryl Norquist was standing behind the ER's Nurses' Station sipping coffee and chatting with one of Squad 51's paramedics. The nurse, who had just recently started working at Rampart, took advantage of every opportunity to get to know the people she was going to be working so closely with. Cheryl heard some 'swishing' and 'sloshing'. Her head turned in the sounds' direction. The woman watched the paramedic's partner come limping down the hall and up to the desk.

"How's Chet?" Roy wondered.

"He's got his cast on…finally. They should be transferring him up to his room pretty soon. How's Marco?" John wondered right back.

"No broken bones. The bottle hit the radial nerve. That's why he couldn't get his right hand and arm to mo—" DeSoto suddenly stopped speaking. His partner was squinting so hard, one of his eyes was actually shut. "What's wrong?"

"Ahhh, I got some water up my nose and now I'm starting to get a dandy sinus head—" Gage suddenly stopped speaking. "Marco got hit by a bottle, too?"

Nurse Norquist passed the squinting paramedic a cup of steaming black coffee. "Did you hurt your leg?"

The fireman gave the nurse a grateful smile, which was closely followed by a look of complete confusion.

"You were limping just now," the woman went on to explain.

"I was?"

The nurse nodded. Then she stepped around the counter, took the limping paramedic by his left elbow and began escorting him off down the hall toward a treatment room. "Why don't we just have a loo—"

"—Uh-uh," Gage slammed on the breaks. "I have a better idea. I'll take a look…and let you know if I find anything," he promised and immediately pulled his arm free.

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. "Why, John…I do believe you're blushing."

"I couldn't possibly be blushing, Miss Norquist. My head hurts too much to blush."

"I am a nurse," the woman reminded him, "and, please, call me Cheryl."

"And I am a paramedic," Gage reminded the girl right back, "Miss Norquist," he cooly concluded. He set his coffee mug down on the counter and began limping off in the direction of the little boys' room.

"Is it just me he hates?" Cheryl wondered as the paramedic disappeared behind the washroom door. "Or is it women in general?"

DeSoto knew the answer to that question all too well.

Back in June, his partner had met _the woman of his dreams_—again, and he had fallen _head over heels_—again.

When Johnny got hurt on the job, in the middle of July, Catherine Lyn Saunders had remained faithfully by his side.

But then his partner had another close call, toward the end of August, and 'Cathy' suddenly realized that she wasn't 'cut out' to be a _fireman_'s girl.

It wasn't the first time that his partner had been dumped, but Johnny must have invested a whole lot more in this particular relationship, because, this time, he seemed to be a whole lot more devastated by the break-up.

Though Roy knew the answer, he didn't feel that it was his place to say anything.

As it was, Marco came strolling up just then, with his right arm still cradled in a sling, and saved him from having to comment. "How's Chet?"

Roy knew the answer to that question, too. "Barring complications, the docs figure he should be back to work in four to six weeks," he readily, and rather relievedly, replied.

Lopez looked extremely pleased to hear that. "Man! That was a close one! Way, wa-ay too close!"

DeSoto nodded solemnly in agreement. "How's the wrist?"

Marco slid his arm out of the sling. "Sore. But Dr. Herron says I can go back to work. Where's John?"

The missing fireman came limping up just then, and saved Roy from having to answer—again.

Gage gave Lopez's left shoulder a careful squeeze. "How yah doin'?"

Marco flexed his right wrist and flashed him back a smile. "The doc says I can go back to work," he reported, but then his smile vanished and he stood there, squinting.

John's own smile turned upside-down. "_Your_ head hurting, too?"

Marco winced and nodded.

"C'mon," Gage draped an arm over Lopez's shoulders and began ushering him off down the hospital corridor. "I've got this little bottle in the glove compartment of the Squad that'll fix us right u—"

"—John, wait!" Cheryl called after him.

John halted and turned back toward the Nurses' Station.

"How bad is it?"

"Huh? Oh…yeah. I, uh, must've caught my leg on that wooden grating. It's just a scratch."

"Just the same, if it broke the skin, we should probably put something on it."

"I'll take care of it—back at the Station. Thanks for the coffee," Gage added and began heading off down the hall again. "Speaking of bottles…Roy tells me a _bottle_ hit you?"

Marco managed a glum nod.

"You sure it wasn't the other way around?" John teased.

"Thanks for the coffee," Roy told their extremely unhappy looking hostess. He picked up a box of medical supplies and then hurried off down the corridor to catch up with his colleagues.

* * *

DeSoto backed Squad 51 into the parking bay at the Station.

Their Captain and their Engineer were waiting there in the garage, to greet them.

"Three cracked ribs, a broken leg and a mild concussion," Roy informed the pair, as he and his passengers climbed wearily out.

His partner limped off in the direction of the showers.

"But he's gonna be all right…" Stanley stated, sounding hopeful.

The informant nodded. "The docs say he should be back to work in four to six weeks."

Hank and Mike glanced at each other, looking tremendously relieved. The Captain turned to Lopez. "What about you, pal?" he cautiously inquired.

Marco stood there for a few moments, massaging his temples and squinting down at the floor beneath his Captain's feet. "I'm cleared for duty," he finally replied.

Stanley saw him squinting down at the floor. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

"Nothing, Cap. I just have a headache and the lights are making it worse."

Stoker, who was also rubbing his forehead and squinting, turned to his crewmate. "Did you take anything for yours?"

"John gave me some aspirin before we left the hospital, but they don't seem to be working."

"Aspirin didn't work for me, either," Mike glumly confessed.

The paramedic pulled his Captain aside. "Cap, could they have been exposed to something back at that refinery?"

"I had the same thought myself, Roy…when I first realized that Mike had a headache. So, I called headquarters. The lab boys didn't detect any toxic fumes and the vat checked out—just plain H2O."

DeSoto exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

Suddenly, someone began banging on their garage's back door.

Hank crossed over and opened it.

It was J.T., Don Lory's paramedic partner from B-Shift. "Thanks, Captain Stanley. I forgot my key."

Stanley stared at the half-asleep fireman in amazement. "You're Kelly's replacement?"

J.T. nodded. "I get to be a plain old fireman until 08:00. Then I go back to being a plain old paramedic. This is gonna be a lo-ong weekend. How is he, anyways?"

"A mild concussion and some broken bones, but he's gonna be okay."

J.T. breathed a sigh of relief. Then he stifled a yawn and looked thoughtful. "If I'm gonna be replacing Chet Kelly, I'm gonna have to be more than just a plain old fireman!"

The corners of the Captain's mouth turned up slightly. He stifled a yawn himself and then glanced at his watch. "Lights out in ten minutes!" he warned.

* * *

Nine minutes later, in the dorm…

Stanley, who was now stripped down to his tighty-whiteys, stood staring—with displeasure—at John's empty bunk. "Where's Gage?"

The missing person stepped into the room, wearing nothing but a towel and toting an armful of clothing.

J.T. sat up in Chester B.'s bunk. "And," he dramatically declared, doing a passable imitation of both Chet Kelly and Ed McMahon, "heeeeeeeeres Johnny!"

Hank smiled and began heading for his own empty bunk.

'Johnny' dropped the bundle in his arms down onto his bed and started pulling on a clean, fresh uniform.

DeSoto's drooping eyes suddenly widened as they spotted the red slit on the back of his partner's left leg. "Johnny, I thought you told Cheryl it was just a scratch." He snapped bolt upright in his bunk. "That's not 'just a scratch'! It runs from your butt cheek clear down to your ankle!"

"So," Johnny quickly came back, "it's a long scratch."

"You should've let her put something on it!"

J.T.'s jaws dropped open and his brows shot up. "You wouldn't let Cheryl Norquist examine you? THE Cheryl Norquist?"

Gage completely ignored him and kept right on dressing.

J.T. rephrased his question. "You had the chance to be alone with Cheryl Norquist…and you didn't take advantage of it?"

John exhaled an exasperated gasp and turned to his tormentor. "Look, Terzikgarskanovich," he stopped for air, "I have a sinus headache. So give me a break, will yah."

J.T. gradually overcame his initial shock at Gage's ability to correctly pronounce his surname. "You got more than a sinus headache. You got serious brain damage. I take that back. In order to have brain damage, first, you gotta have a brai—"

"—Goodnight, gentlemen!" their Captain ordered and flicked off the lights.

The dorm was plunged into darkness. Several seconds passed and then the lights came back on.

Hank propped himself up on his elbows. "Gage?" he calmly called out.

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Why did you just get _dressed_…to go to bed?"

"Because my boots are wet, and because my bunkers were rubbing on my leg and because I'm co-old!"

"Oh." Stanley flicked the light switch off and fell back onto his bunk.

"I'm cold, too," Marco suddenly realized. He slipped out of bed and pulled the blanket off of one of the empty bunks.

Stoker propped himself up on his elbows. "Can you grab one for me? It's damp in here tonight."

Marco obligingly yanked another spare blanket off and dropped it on his friend.

"Thanks."

"Your welcome."

John fastened his belt buckle and pinned on his badge. Then he threw back his covers and climbed quickly into bed.

DeSoto studied his blanket-bundled buddy's silhouette for a few moments. "Johnny?"

"Hmmm?"

"You really should put something on it."

"On what?"

"Your leg."

"Huh?…Oh…yeah."

"If you don't want to do it, I will."

There was a long silence.

"Johnny!"

Gage groaned and rolled over to face his friend. "Wha-at?"

"Do you want me to put something on it?"

"On what?"

"YOUR LEG!" their Captain shouted and the dorm lights came back on. "Ga-age, what did you do to your leg?"

Ga-age squinted up at the ceiling. "I just scratched it a little, Cap. It's okay. Look, I promise I won't talk anymore. Can you shut the lights off? They're making my head hurt."

Stanley propped himself back up on his elbows. "What is it with the headaches around here? They're reaching epidemic proportions!"

No one replied.

Hank sighed. "Roy, take a look at his leg. If you think you should put something on it, _put something on it_—QUIETLY! And then, shut the lights off." The Captain closed his eyes and dropped back down on his bed.

DeSoto climbed stiffly out of his bunk and pulled the covers off of his cold friend. "Drop your pants."

Gage reluctantly unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his waistband, unzipped his fly, and tugged his trousers down around his ankles. Then, even more reluctantly, he rolled onto his tummy.

Roy examined the long scratch and frowned. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

"I am freezing here!" his partner pouted.

DeSoto pulled the big baby's 'blankie' back over him and then headed for the garage.

John snuggled back up in his blanket and fell asleep to the loud, painful throbbing in his forehead.

Roy returned, armed with an aerosol can. He lifted the blanket off and began spraying the can's contents on the scratch.

Gage jerked awake. "Ah-ahhh!"

Everybody jerked awake.

"I believe I said QUIETLY," their Captain reminded them.

John eventually got his breath back.

DeSoto went to spray some more of the powerful—stinging—antiseptic on the scratch.

Gage gave the first-aid administrator an annoyed glare. Then he gritted his teeth and buried his face in his pillow.

"Okay. You can pull your pants back up," Roy announced, following several more muffled "Ah-ahhh!"s.

John flipped over onto his back, tugged his trousers up around his waist, zipped his fly back up, snapped his waistband shut and re-buckled his belt. He got resituated under his covers and then turned to give his partner one last irritated, squinting glare. "Are you happy now?"

"Yeah!" DeSoto declared, sounding equally sarcastic and looking every bit as irritated.

Gage suddenly realized what an ingrate he was being. He didn't mean to be. It's just that his head was hurting so ba-ad. He flashed his friend a warm, grateful smile. "Thanks."

Roy saw that his partner was—finally—appreciative of his first-aid efforts. His hurt look vanished and he smiled back. "Your welcome."

John's squinting eyes closed and he drew an arm up to cover his grimacing face.

DeSoto took the hint and quickly doused the dorm's lights. He stumbled over to his own bunk and climbed back under his own covers. He was just about settled in…when the claxons sounded.

All six firemen sat stiffly up.

"**Squad 51…**"

The paramedics threw their blankets aside and hauled themselves up out of their cozy beds.

The Engine crew exhaled quiet sighs of relief and collapsed back onto their comfy bunks.

"**Child having difficulty breathing…**"

"We got it, Cap!" Roy called out as the pair trotted past their upright Captain.

"Thanks," Hank mumbled sleepily. Then he dropped back down and drifted instantly off to sleep.

**TBC**

Author's note: 'neuros' stands for: neurological exams.


	5. Chapter 5

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Five**

1127 East Cadman Drive turned out to be a rather lavish looking home in a rather well to do neighborhood.

DeSoto pulled up and parked on the street in front of the call site.

Much to his partner's relief, he finally cut the Squad's blaring siren.

Man! John had thought that bright lights hurt his head! Bright lights were nothing compared to loud sounds! He opened his squinting eyes a bit and stared up at the familiar mansion. "We've been here before. Remember? The 'cat in the face' place?"

"Yeah," his partner replied. "I recognized the address. We must get called out here _at least_ once a month."

The pair exited their rescue vehicle and began pulling open its side compartments.

One of the child's anxious parents suddenly appeared on the home's well-lit porch. "Please? Hurry!" the woman pleaded.

Roy removed the Bio-phone and the DRUG box.

"Why do they _always_ have to say that?" Gage grumbled beneath his breath. "Can't they see we're _already_ hurrying?" He grabbed the respirator, and a couple more cases containing equipment that might be needed, and followed his somewhat amused associate up the paved drive and onto the porch.

* * *

The woman ushered them through the front rooms, up a winding staircase and into a bedroom, where a wheezing little girl was buried beneath a pretty pink comforter.

Curled up on the pillow right beside her blonde head—and practically sleeping in the child's cherubic face—was a large white longhaired cat.

John flashed his partner an 'I rest my case' frown and shoved the cat onto the floor. He opened the case containing their Bio-phone and inserted the call stick.

Roy smiled down at their pint-sized patient. "Hi, Debbie. Remember us?"

Debbie smiled tentatively and nodded even more uncertainly.

"Uhhh…We're gonna need a list of all her current medications," Gage told Debbie's parents. Then he picked the phone up and thumbed its call button. "Rampart Base, this is Squad 51. How do you read?"

"Let's see if we can't get you breathin' a little easier. Okay?" Roy continued. "We're just gonna check you out, same as last time, and it's not gonna hurt one itty-bitty bit," he promised. The paramedic flashed the terrified little girl another warm smile and then Velcro'ed a ped's cuff on to her scrawny little arm.

"**Unit calling in, please repeat…**" Nurse Norquist finally responded.

John squeezed the bridge of his nose and forced his tightly shut eyes to open into slits. "Uhhh, Rampart, this is County 51. We have a five-year-old female victim…apparently suffering from an acute bronchial spasm. Victim has a history of asthmatic attacks and is currently taking—"

The child's mother handed him a slip of paper.

Gage squinted down at the note until the woman's blurred handwriting finally came into focus. He passed the little list's contents on to Rampart. "Standby for vitals, Rampart…" he advised and turned to accept yet another slip of paper from his partner. He had an easier time reading that list off. Roy wrote a lot bigger.

"**51**," Dr. Tyler came back. "**Have you administered oxygen**?"

"Squad 51. Affirmative, Rampart," John relayed. "We've got her on 4 liters."

"**Can the cause of the attack be determined, 51**?"

Gage grimaced and lowered the phone. "What brought this on?"

Both parents shrugged.

"We don't know what Debbie is allergic to," the girl's father glumly confessed.

John grimaced again and began massaging his left temple. The painful throbbing in his head was making it increasingly difficult for him to concentrate. He squinted down at the blurry, furry creature that was now curled up on the rug beside his right knee and frowned. "Probably, cats…" he muttered to himself. Then, in a voice that wasn't quite as hushed he annoyedly added, "The cat sleeps right in her face."

DeSoto heard the comment and turned to his partner, looking stunned.

The girl's parents appeared to be equally shocked—not to mention highly insulted.

"Don't you think we've had her tested?" the girl's mommy asked, her words filled with anger. "We've taken her to see dozens of doctors! Debbie's had thousands of dollars worth of tests! I can assure you, our daughter is NOT allergic to cats!"

"Our daughter has been examined by the best allergy specialists in the state!" Debbie's daddy cooly concurred. "I'm sure THEY would have told us if she was allergic to cats. I'm sure THEY know a great deal more about allergies than you do!"

"**51, did you copy that last?**"

John either didn't see, or chose to totally ignore, his partner's warning glare. He also either didn't hear, or chose to completely disregard, Dr. Tyler's question. "Well, I don't think the cat helps her any…sleeping right in her face like that."

Roy's jaw dropped.

The girl's father's eyes narrowed. "And we don't think that's any of _your_ business!"

"**Squad 51…Are you there?**"

DeSoto sighed and snatched the phone from his partner. He gave the girl's parents an apologetic look. "He's not usually like this…really. He's got a sinus headache," he explained and then pressed the call button. "Rampart Base, this is Squad 51. Sorry for the delay…"

Their patient's impatient mommy gave the apologizing paramedic a grateful smile and his pushy partner an aloof sneer. "I assure you, there is no harm in letting Fritz sleep with Debbie. He's had all his shots and we make sure he's free from fleas and other parasites."

Gage watched the cat go into and out of focus, to the painful throbbing in his head. "I see Fritz doesn't have a flea collar. Do you dust him?"

The man glanced at his wife, who nodded.

"How often?" John went on.

Debbie's parents turned to stare at each other again, looking confused by the paramedic's current line of questioning.

Roy repeated Dr. Tyler's instructions, but his partner failed to record them. He set the phone down and began copying them onto a small notepad, himself. "Johnny! Look, will you just forget about the cat and hand me the DRUG box!"

Johnny squinted and frowned and forced himself to look around. Finally, he found the case in question and passed it to his partner. "Once a month?" he suddenly inquired.

Debbie's mommy seemed surprised. "Why, yes. I believe so. Our housekeeper takes care of it. How did you know?"

"I didn't. But we get called out here once a month. If you check with your housekeeper, I'm pretty sure you'll find she dusted the cat toda—" Gage grimaced and gritted his teeth, as the pain in his head became unbearable.

"Ask her!" the woman's husband ordered.

His wife protested. "Richard, it's three o'clock in the mor—"

"—I don't care what time it is! Ask her! Don't you see? If he's right, we've got the solution to Debbie's problem!"

His wife sighed in resignation and left the room.

"Rampart, Squad 51. The bronchial spasm appears to be easing," Roy reported upon administering the prescribed drugs and other definitive therapy. "The victim's respirations are returning to normal. Standby for an update on vitals, Rampart…" he lowered the phone and passed his partner a stethoscope. "Get her BP."

John stuck the stethoscope in his ears, and carefully inflated the BP cuff. He released the air and then listened for the steady pounding of their victim's pulse, but all he could hear was the loud throbbing in his own head. Even if he could have heard a pressure, his eyes wouldn't have been able to distinguish the numbers on the BP gauge. Everything was just a big blurred mess. He exhaled an exasperated gasp and pulled the tips of the stethoscope from his ears. "It's no use. I can't get a reading."

DeSoto had been studying his pained associate carefully. "Talk to me partner!" he ordered, suddenly feeling even more worried than he'd already been for the past five minutes.

"Ahhh…Sorry, Roy. I can't read the gauge."

"That does it! We're going in and Dr. Tyler is going to check you out," DeSoto determined, as he set about gathering the fresh set of vitals.

"No way! You don't go to the hospital for a headache—" Gage grimaced again and even emitted an involuntary groan—which certainly didn't help him plead his 'no go' case.

"If it's affecting your vision," Roy reminded his squinting partner, "it might not be 'just' a headache."

"Yeah…well…" John managed a bitter smile, "maybe I've got what THEY call a 'blinding' headache?"

DeSoto was not amused. "You should have stayed in bed and let J.T. come."

"I know," Gage glumly agreed. "I was hoping the aspirin would work."

Just then, Debbie's mommy returned, carrying a small round cardboard canister. She handed the container to her husband. "She dusted the cat this evening."

Her husband looked ecstatically happy to hear that. He beamed a broad grin at Gage. "Mister, you can butt into our business anytime!"

"The flea powder was just a guess," John reminded the man. "To be certain, she should still be tested to find out if it's the perfume…the poison…or the inert—" he stopped speaking and cradled his hurting head in his hands.

DeSoto finished relaying the vitals update and crossed quickly over to his partner. "Johnny, you okay?"

Johnny felt his tummy starting to turn. "I think I'm gonna be sick. I'll wait for you out by the Squad." With that little announcement, the headache sufferer got shakily to his feet and then dashed from the room.

"**All right, 51**," Tyler responded. "**She's stabilized.**" The physician then proceeded to pass some further medical advice along to the little girl's parents.

"Squad 51. 10-4, Rampart," DeSoto signed off and flashed the child a final smile. "The doctor says you're doing just fine now, Debbie. But he wants you to see your doctor tomorrow—er, later today. Okay?"

Debbie nodded. "Thank you. I hope your friend feels better, too."

"Thanks. So do I," Roy assured her. 'Believe me, so do I!'

The girl looked around the room. "Where's Fritz?"

Her father picked the cat up off the rug. "You can't have Fritz back until Martha gives him a bath."

The child's eyes lit up. "Can I watch?"

Her mommy suppressed a smile, but then sternly ordered, "You just lie still, young lady! You're not getting out of that bed!"

DeSoto finished gathering up all their equipment. "She shouldn't have anymore trouble tonight—er, this morning. But, if she does, please…don't hesitate to call."

The pair nodded and smiled appreciatively.

"Here, let me give you a hand with that." The man passed the cat to his wife so that he could take the respirator and some of the equipment cases from the struggling paramedic.

Roy exhaled an audible sigh of relief. "Thanks!"

* * *

DeSoto and Debbie's dad lugged the equipment down the driveway and up to the Squad.

Roy's stomach knotted. His partner was nowhere to be seen. He set the heavy cases down and began scanning the immediate area for a…body. His tummy untied one knot only to tie another, as his searching eyes failed again to find his friend. "Johnny?" he shouted out anxiously.

"Right here, Roy!" Johnny called back.

DeSoto exhaled another audible sigh of relief and watched as Gage came jogging down the sidewalk and up to the Squad. "You okay?"

John nodded and kept right on jogging—in place. "I feel a whole lot better with an empty stomach—an emptier stomach. Chet upchucked while I was giving him AR…"

Roy's face suddenly scrunched up some. He was aware of what happened when 'that' occurred.

Their victim's father set his burdens down beside the Squad and then extended his hand. "Thank you for your…concern. I sure hope you get over your headache."

Gage shook the guys proffered palm. The corners of his mouth turned up somewhat. 'Concern, huh…how polite.' "You're welcome, and thanks. It's already much better."

The girl's father seemed genuinely pleased to hear that. The man shook DeSoto's hand as well. Then he smiled and waved and was gone.

Speaking of being gone…

Roy turned to face his friend, but Johnny was no longer there.

Gage had gone jogging off down the sidewalk—again.

"Johnny, what are you doing?"

"I read somewhere that, when you have a really bad headache, it helps to run!"

DeSoto tossed their equipment back into the side compartments and then scrambled up into the Squad. He got their vehicle moving and headed off down the street to rendezvous with the runner.

* * *

"Johnny, will you knock it off and get in here!" Roy exclaimed as he finally caught up with his friend.

"Just let me jog a few more blocks," Gage gasped breathlessly. "I really feel like running!"

"It's after three o'clock in the morning," DeSoto reminded him. "And I really feel like sleeping!" He slammed on the Squad's brakes.

John reluctantly hit his brakes, too and begrudgingly climbed aboard. "Party pooper…" he grumbled beneath his breath and began reaching for their radio.

Roy shot his partner a quick worried glance. "Show us Code 7 at Rampart."

Gage lowered the radio mic'. "I thought you were in such an all fired hurry to get back to the Station and go to bed?"

"I just said that so you'd get in. I wanna check up on Chet."

"We can call the hospital from the Station."

"Yeah…well…I wanna get some supplies, too."

"You just got supplies."

"So we'll get some more. Now, show us Code 7 at Rampart."

"You're still worried about my headache, aren't you…"

"I'm not at all sure what you had was 'just' a headache."

"What difference does it make? It's gone, now. I'm fine! I feel great!"

"Good. Then you shouldn't mind letting Dr. Tyler examine you."

"I'm tellin' yah, I'm okay now. I don't need to go to no hospital—or see no doctor."

"Yeah? Well, you're **not** a _doctor_! And I won't believe that until I hear it from someone who **is**!"

John reluctantly pressed the call button on their radio's mic'. "LA, this is just an average, lowly, run-of-the-mill paramedic speaking. I'd like to report that Squad 51 is available. Show us Code 7 at Rampart General."

"10-4, 51…" the dispatcher acknowledged, sounding more than a bit amused.

DeSoto shot his friend an 'oh brother' look. "You definitely need your head examined!"

"That's just a paramedic's opinion," Gage quickly came back. "I won't believe that until I hear it from a 'doctor'."

The two friends glanced at each other and swapped grins.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Six**

Gage and DeSoto entered Rampart General's Emergency Receiving.

Except for a dozen or so people seated in the waiting area, the place appeared to be deserted.

"Mornin', Jeff!" DeSoto called down the corridor, as an orderly came out of one of the treatment rooms. "Where is everybody?"

"Mornin', Roy…Johnny," Jeff Vermille wearily acknowledged, as he came limping up to them. "Dr. Doughty is in One, with the migraine. Dr. Tyler is in Two, with the hip chick with the chipped hip—" he paused to yawn.

John was intrigued by Jeff's last tongue-twisting comment. "Say that three times—really fast!" he dared.

"Are you kiddin'?" Vermille came back. "I can barely say it once—really slow!"

"How'd the hip chick chip her hip?" Gage playfully prompted.

"They picked the vic' up at the Firefly Disco. The hip chick must a' been Bumping while under the influence," Jeff reasoned. "Because she claims she Bumped right, when she should a' Bumped left, and her hip caught the corner of a table." He completed his chipped hip explanation and turned back to finish answering the first question he'd been asked. "Dr. Herron is in Three, with the O.D.. And Dr. Gordon is in the Doctor's Lounge, with the rest a' the crew, sipping coffee—" he yawned again, "and trying to stay awake. See yah, guys! I gotta get back upstairs," he announced and went yawning off down the hall.

"The hip chick with the chipped hip. The hip chick with the chipped hip. The hip chick with the hipped chip—" John gasped in frustration. He'd come so close, too!

Roy gave his frustrated friend a sideways roll of his eyes. "I'm going up to check on Chet. You are going to go ask Dr. Gordon to examine you."

"No wa-ay!" Gage exclaimed, his frustration giving way to alarm. "She's a _shrink_! I don't need no _shrink_!"

"She's a _psychiatrist_," DeSoto quickly corrected. "She is also a medical doctor, and perfectly qualified to examine you!"

His frowning friend suddenly brightened. "I know! Since you think so highly of her, why don't I go check up on Chet—and you go get examined?"

Roy was not amused. His blue eyes began narrowing into 'no nonsense' slits. "We are not leaving here until she examines you!"

Gage's shoulders sagged in defeat and he reluctantly began heading for the Doctor's Lounge.

DeSoto watched him go grumbling off down the hall. He waited until his peeved partner vanished into the lounge. Then he turned and disappeared himself, in the direction of the elevators.

* * *

"Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!" the paramedic cheerfully proclaimed as he strolled into the lounge full of half-asleep people.

The lounging hospital staffers glanced up at him through half-open eyes and acknowledged his cheerful greeting with an assortment of subdued grunts.

John spotted Veronica Gordon and his cheery demeanor crumbled. Gawd, he hated shrinks! He drew a deep breath and stepped up to the tiny table she was seated at. "Uhhh…Hi, Doc. I hate to interrupt, but…I really need to talk to you—"

"—Hi, John. Yeah. Sure. Find a couch. I'll be right with you," the woman quickly came back, without even bothering to look up from the medical chart she was studying.

"I meant, in a Treatment Room," Gage further specified, over the sound of sleepy snickers.

Gordon's eyebrows arched upwards. The doctor set the chart down and devoted her undivided attention to the young man standing at her side. She knew how he felt about her. Hell, everyone did! It was certainly no secret that John Gage _hated _'shrinks'. "Whose idea was this?"

"My, uh, partner thinks I should have my head examined," the paramedic quietly replied.

"Nonsense!" Gordon told him. "Why, you're every bit as insane as the rest of us." She stood up from the table and sat their visitor down in her vacated chair, to begin her preliminary examination. "Boy! You've sure got a mop of hair on you! Makes it harder to find the screws," she teased and began running her fingers through his long black locks. "Looks like they're all Phillips'," she diagnosed and pulled a gold-plated Phillips screwdriver from the right hand pocket of her smock. The doctor pretended to tighten something in the back of the paramedic's head.

The little group snorted with laughter.

John was even forced to grin. "You don't understand, Doc. Roy says we ain't leavin' he—"

"—Shhhh!" the doctor chastised. "You're distracting the driver."

Gage's grin broadened.

The now wide-awake hospital workers continued to chuckle.

"There! Just a few loose screws, is all!" Gordon proclaimed, upon completing her adjustments. "A gift from a former patient," the 'shrink' explained, prior to pocketing her gold-plated instrument.

There was a renewed round of snickering.

A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over John, and took his grin right along with it.

Dr. Gordon saw the dazed expression on the paramedic's face and her own grin did a disappearing act. The woman was about to ask the young man if he was okay—when she got paged to the Base Station. She gathered up her charts and immediately left the lounge.

Gage was feeling more light-headed by the moment. "I think I need some fresh air," he mumbled to himself and followed the doctor from the room.

Their break over, the revitalized hospital staffers reluctantly returned to work, as well.

* * *

The whoozy paramedic ended up in the parking lot, just outside the hospital's Emergency entrance.

John stood there, hunched over, with his hands resting on his knees, and drew in several long, deep breaths of cool, crisp, invigorating early morning air. His head cleared. So he straightened back up. He felt exhilaratingly alive—like he could jog back to the Station.

The sound of approaching sirens cut out. Less than a minute later, an ambulance pulled in and backed up to the Emergency doors.

Squad 39 pulled in, backed up and parked right beside it.

The vehicles' front seats were vacated.

The attendants quickly emptied their ambulance of its rear cargo.

"Hi, John." "Hi, John." 39's paramedics greeted, in passing.

"Hi, Mark. Hi, Sammy," Gage called back. He watched the little group, and the gurney they were guiding, disappear into Emergency Receiving.

Nurse Norquist was standing just inside the doors, gazing out at him through the glass. She saw that he was watching her watch him, and smiled.

John smiled back. "Well, if it isn't THE Cheryl Norquist!" he exclaimed, as the woman stepped outside to join him.

Cheryl wasn't quite sure what to make of his greeting. "That's the first time you've ever called me anything but 'Miss Norquist'." The pre-dawn chill hit her full force and she shivered. "Brrrr! Aren't you cold?"

"I'm not sure _what_ I am," the fireman truthfully told her. "Is Dr. Tyler still in with the hip chick with the chipped hip?"

She shot him a strange stare and shook her head. "He's in Four—with a bad bellyache. Why?"

Gage gasped in frustration. "Look, will you do me a big favor?"

The nurse nodded, uncertainly.

"Will you please tell Dr. Gordon that I really need to see her…alone…in a Treatment Room?"

"Of course, but you're going to have to wait a while. She's in One—with the attempted suicide 39 just brought in."

The paramedic appeared even more disappointed. He had the irresistible urge to run. So he ran.

"Where are you going?" Cheryl called after him, as he went jogging off across the parking lot. "Wait!"

"Can't!" the jogger shouted back over his shoulder. "I _gotta_ run!"

"I'm an RN! Maybe I can help…" the woman allowed her words to trail off, as the paramedic disappeared behind a row of cars. Cheryl frowned and turned around. "Oh…sorry," she apologized, as she bumped right into Roy DeSoto.

The fireman steadied the rattled woman and then flashed her a forgiving smile. "Have you seen my partner anywhere?"

The nurse nodded and pointed to the parking lot. "He's out there…running around…somewhere," she replied and was amazed that DeSoto didn't seem the least bit surprised to hear that.

"Thanks!" Roy waved and left to go find his rambunctious friend.

Cheryl stared after him for a few moments. Then she shook her head and went back to work.

* * *

Roy didn't have to look very hard. As he climbed into the Squad, Johnny came jogging up and climbed right in beside him.

"How is he?" Gage gasped breathlessly.

"His condition remains stable. He's resting comfortably. He's doin' okay."

"All right!" John exclaimed with a grin.

Roy started to turn the key in the ignition, but then froze. "What did Dr. Gordon have to say?"

Gage draped his left arm across the back of their seat and tapped his fingers a few times. "Uhhh…She disagreed with your diagnosis. She said I didn't need to have my head examin—"

"—Did she examine it?" DeSoto cautiously inquired.

"Yes. Yes, she did," John told him truthfully.

His partner seemed pleased and finally started the Squad up.

* * *

As the pair drove along, Roy waited patiently for his silent partner to provide him with the details of Dr. Gordon's examination.

However, when they'd traveled a good ten blocks from the hospital—and Gage still hadn't said a word—the senior paramedic's patience wore out. "We-ell? What did she think caused your headache?"

His passenger squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Uhhh…She didn't actually comment on _that_, but she did manage to find a few loose screws…" he tacked on, with a tentative smile.

DeSoto stopped for a red light and aimed an angry glare at his cringing companion. "You didn't even tell her about your headache, did you."

Gage looked guilty as charged, but then turned defensive. "Well, I never got the chance! I tried to talk to her! Honest! But she wouldn't take me seriously!" He frowned, seeing that his partner was now too upset with him to even speak.

The light changed and they rode on in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, John flashed his fuming friend another slight smile. "Did you know that Gordon carries a gold-plated screwdriver around in her pocket?"

Roy continued to ignore him.

Gage exhaled a glum sigh. "Ah-ah…I probably won't be able to sleep for the rest of the shift," he quietly confided. "I think I must got what THEY call my _second wind_." He chanced a glance in his friend's direction, but Roy was still too furious to talk. So he stopped talking and turned to stare out his window. The streetlights suddenly went out…and so did he.

* * *

Ten minutes later, DeSoto backed the Squad into its spot in the apparatus bay.

Roy flicked the ignition off and watched as the garage door gradually began to descend. His eyes also started closing. He forced them open and then aimed them at his aggravating passenger.

He saw that Johnny was sound asleep and was forced to smile. "_Second wind_, huh?" he mumbled beneath his breath and reluctantly reached out to shake his friend awake. His arm froze. 'He might wake up…get his _third wind_…and start jogging around the Station,' he figured, and decided _not_ to disturb his peaceful-looking partner.

Instead, he climbed quietly out of the cab, pulled a blanket from one of the side compartments and tucked his sleeping friend in with it. "Good morning, Johnny…" he wished, in a whisper. Then he backed out of the Squad, quietly closed his door, and went yawning off in the direction of the dorm.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Seven**

John Gage groaned his way back to consciousness—and gasped. Judging by the dryness of his throat, he'd been doing a great deal of 'gasping'.

He was sitting in the Squad…his neck had a terrible kink in it…and, most noticeable of all, his sinus headache was back—with a vengeance!

Ah, hell. Who was he kidding? He'd never had a sinus headache before, in his entire life, that had hurt this bad, or that had caused him to barf and blackout.

No. Roy was right. This wasn't 'just' a headache. His head was _really_ killing him!

He winced. That observation was probably a little closer to the truth than he dared—or cared—to admit.

He groaned again and gritted his teeth. It was becoming increasingly difficult to form a coherent thought. 'Push past the pain…push past the pain,' the paramedic kept telling himself.

His right hand started reaching for his throat, but his arm was buried beneath something…a blanket. He smiled. Roy had covered him with a blanket. Apparently, his partner had assumed he was asleep.

He tossed the cover off and pressed the tips of two fingers over his corotid artery. His pulse was bounding so unbelievably hard, he could have probably palpated it with his fire gloves on. His pressure had to be through the roof! Perhaps his head really **was** _killing_ him! It probably was. Nobody could feel as sick as he felt and NOT be dying!

'The refinery.' He must've been exposed to some hideous toxic something or other back at that refinery fi—. He tensed. Marco, Mike and the Cap' had all been in there, too! What if they were feeling just as sick as he was?

He needed to summon help!

He reached for the Squad's dash-mounted radio. His palate was almost too parched to speak. Unfortunately, the canteen, on the seat beside him, was even drier than his mouth. He and Marco had polished off the last bit of its contents washing down their aspirins back at Rampart.

He swallowed hard and thumbed the mic's transmit button. "LA," he managed to get out, between gasps and groans, "Code I…possibly…times four…Station Fifty…Fifty-one."

"**10-4, 51…**" LA acknowledged.

Once again, the groaning man was overwhelmed with the urge to run. He really felt like running. 'Now, there's a silly notion.' In fact, the idea was downright laughable, since he doubted he could even stand, in his current condition.

Besides, he was already breathless from all that damn 'gasping' he was doing. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to swallow. His mouth was soooo ridiculously dry.

Forget running! What he really _really_ needed was some water.

He dropped the mic', opened his door—and collapsed face down, on the cold concrete floor. Damn! He was right. He was in no condition to stand.

The fireman felt something warm and wet on the back of his neck. He lifted his hurting head and got licked in the face. 'Henry…'

The Basset hound whined and continued to nuzzle and nudge the downed man. The dog knew the fireman didn't belong on the floor. Henry sensed something was wrong, and, when he failed to get Gage to his feet by himself, he started barking for assistance.

The Squad's radio crackled.

Over the persistent—and painful—yapping in his ears, John heard the muted tones. He listened as 16's and 39's were dispatched to a very familiar address.

Help was on the way.

Gage was beginning to wonder if he would still be alive…when it got there.

* * *

Hank Stanley awoke to the sound of a barking dog. 'What dog?' he wondered sleepily. 'It can't be Henry. Henry _never_ barks.'

The annoying racket continued.

So the rudely awakened Captain threw his covers off and climbed into the chilly bottom half of his bunkers. He got stiffly to his feet, slipped his suspenders up over his weary shoulders, and started stumbling toward the garage. "Knock it off, Henry!" he grumbled beneath his breath. "That's an _order_!" he added, as the pooch completely ignored him.

* * *

Hank yawned and stretched his way into the apparatus bay.

The barking seemed to be coming from over by the Squa—.

Stanley stiffened.

Gage was sprawled out on the garage floor, right beneath the Squad's open door. The paramedic appeared to be writhing in pain.

"Roy! J.T.! Get in here!" the Captain shouted back over his shoulder. "There's somethin' goin' on with John!"

Hank reached the fallen firefighter's side in seconds. He pulled the blanket from the front seat of the Squad, spread it out on the floor and gently rolled the groaning man over and onto it.

John had always hoped that, when his 'time' came, he would be able to face death as courageously as he had always tried to face life. But, it was beginning to look like there would be no chance for _bravado_…no raging river to battle…no flaming inferno to fight…nothing! Just some stupid toxic shit…screwing with the control knobs in his brain. 'How in the hell are you supposed to fight that? Maybe you don't fight it. Maybe you just accept it.' He felt someone's gentle hands grip his shoulders and he was rolled carefully over and onto his back. He forced his tightly shut eyes open and saw his concerned Captain kneeling over him. At least he wouldn't be alone…when the end came.

Hank saw the look in the paramedic's pain-filled, watering eyes and his heart experienced its second 'cardiac arrhythmia' of the shift! He'd seen that 'look' before. His own eyes welled up. He gripped Gage's shoulders—hard—and gave them a not so gentle shaking. "No way, mister!" he shouted angrily. "Don't. You. Even. THINK it!" he sternly ordered. "You hear me?"

John failed to respond.

The Captain gave his shoulders another attention-grabbing jostle and repeated his shouted question—and was finally rewarded with a slight nod.

Upon hearing the Captain's shouted command, DeSoto and J.T. had quickly donned their bunkers.

"What happened?" Roy anxiously inquired as they both came bursting into the apparatus bay.

J.T. stepped between the body on the blanket and the Squad and started emptying compartments.

"I don't know," their still somewhat disconcerted Captain replied. "Henry was barking. I came out to investigate and found him lying here, face down on the floor…in a whole lot a' hurt." Hank reluctantly released his hold on John's shoulders and quickly moved out of the way.

DeSoto dropped to his knees beside his pained partner. "Talk to me, Johnny!"

Once more, Johnny willed his eyes to open. The concern that he'd heard in his friend's voice was a perfect match for the look on his friend's face. His dry mouth formed a slightly crooked smile. "R-Rule…Number…One," he managed to get out, between gasped breaths.

Roy's frown deepened. "Dammit, Johnny! Tell me what's goin' on?"

Johnny didn't want to think about it. His head was hurting too much to think, but he didn't wanna die with Roy mad at him either. 'Push past the pain…push past the pain…' he continued his silent mantra. "Pressure…seems to be…fluctuating," he explained with a grimace and a groan. "Sudden…drop…blackout…Sudden…rise…head…hurts…uh-hummm…" Their panting patient began tossing his hurting head. "Feel…s-t-r-a-n-g-e," he quietly confided.

J.T. already had the Base Kit set up and had even established contact with Rampart.

"Pulse is 76 and bounding. Respirations are 32 and shallow. Standby for a BP," DeSoto told him, before turning back to his partner. "Like 'how' strange?"

"Like…'really'…s-t-r-a-n-g-e," their patient impatiently replied. Then, for reasons that were currently beyond his ability to comprehend, John Gage flew into an uncontrollable rage! He picked up the first thing he could find…and lashed out at the first thing he could see.

John's fellow firefighters watched with wide eyes as he suddenly sat bolt upright. Their eyes got even bigger when the patient picked up an oxygen cylinder and slammed it into the side of the Squad. The three of them managed to wrestle the tank away from him before he could take a second swing at anyone, or anything. They forced their furious shift-mate back onto the blanket and then held him down.

"I think he may have…just shed some light…on the _Chet/Marco Bottle Bashing Incident_," Hank declared, sounding a bit breathless himself.

The patient suddenly stopped struggling, but his body didn't stop thrashing around.

"He's convulsing!" Roy realized, and snatched up the phone.

Speaking of realizing things…

The Captain was just about to head over to the call station and request an ambulance, when it donned on him that two of his crew were missing from the garage.

Hank knew the two men to be light sleepers. They couldn't possibly have slept through all this commotion.

The huge knot that was already in Stanley's stomach tightened. He turned and made a mad dash for the dorm.

* * *

"Mike! Marco!" Hank called out when he reached the missing men's bunks.

The bodies in the beds didn't budge.

When more shouting, and some rather rough shaking, failed to rouse his unconscious colleagues, Station 51's Captain suffered his third 'cardiac arrhythmia' of the shift.

Stanley exhaled a silent prayer as he slid his fingertips into the little groove in Stoker's extended neck. Mike had a corotid! Boy, did he ever have a corotid! The look on the Captain's face shifted from relieved to concerned. He was pretty sure a person's pulse should never pound that hard.

He spun around and pressed the tips of his fingers into the depression in Lopez's throat. The Captain's concern returned to alarm. Marco's pulse was barely palpable!

* * *

James Terzikgarskanovich inflated the BP cuff on John Gage's rigid, jerking right arm and struggled to keep the chestpiece of his stethoscope in place. He opened the bulb's release valve and listened for a reading. He stared disbelievingly down at the gauge in his hand and quickly took a second reading…and then a third. "Roy, I'm gonna need another cuff. The gauge on this one's gotta be busted."

DeSoto finished drawing the blood samples Rampart had requested. "Why? What reading did you get?"

J.T. was almost too embarrassed to tell him. "242/145. That's not even _possible_…Is it?"

Roy didn't reply. He simply pulled another BP cuff from an open case at his feet and passed it to his fellow paramedic.

J.T. switched cuffs and took a fourth reading. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed. It must be possible. Both gauges couldn't be broken. He glanced up from the instrument in his hand, looking every bit as stunned as he'd sounded. "I just got the same numbers! Man! We gotta get his pressure down! He's gonna blow a gasket, or stroke out on us—or…somethin'!"

"Yah mean, like go into convulsions?" Roy bitterly remarked. They needed to get an IV established, but in order to do that, they had to administer the anti-convulsant. "Try to keep his arm still for me, will yah…"

J.T. grabbed Gage's right arm with both hands and tried to keep the jerking to a minimum.

DeSoto emptied the hypo's contents into his partner's vein. At least, he hoped he did.

Within moments, Johnny's rigid muscles began to relax. The jerking abated and his body went limp.

"208/118," J.T. relievedly reported. Just to be certain, he took another look. "Make that 186/111," he corrected, a trace of alarm returning to his voice.

The two vertical paramedics exchanged anxious glances. Little alarm bells were going off in both of their brains.

DeSoto set the IV he'd been prepping aside and snatched the phone back up.

J.T. began taking back-to-back readings. "168/102…145/95…132/87…124/81…113/74…93/66…Hold it right there! Please, hold it right there…" He glanced up from the gauge. "64/43! We gotta give him something! He's gonna bottom out on us!…Correction! He is bottoming out! 50/33! He's gonna code!"

Roy lowered the phone in his hand and stared disbelievingly down at his partner. 'You sure were right about your pressure fluctuating!'

Their patient had just gone from a hypertensive—to a hypotensive—crisis in a little less than a minute!

Just when the paramedic had convinced himself that the situation couldn't possibly get any bleaker, his Captain came racing back into the apparatus bay and announced that they had two more victims in need of immediate medical treatment!

It also happened to be precisely at that moment that the sound of approaching sirens could first be heard.

It was just like in the movies, when at the bleakest point in the film, a bugle starts blowing from out of nowhere and the cavalry comes charging up to save the day.

Reinforcements were arriving!

DeSoto saw the mic' cord dangling from the Squad's dashboard and glanced back down at Gage. 'Thanks, Junior!'

Hank trotted over to the garage door and hit the UP button.

Roy quickly regrouped. Okay. Any drug that treated the hypotension would just exacerbate the hypertension. Any drug that treated the hypertension would just exacerbate the hypotension. Yet, _something_ had to be done! Johnny's pressure was waaaay too low! His vital organs weren't being properly infused.

They couldn't just stand there and watch him die!

DeSoto suddenly had an idea. He dropped the phone and grabbed their MAST kit. "We may not be able to treat both conditions, but we can sure as hell treat one!"

Within sixty seconds, the anti-shock trousers had been applied.

Hank and Roy each opened a stopcock valve and began blowing air into the garment's two lower compartments. Which, in turn, reduced the blood flow to the victim's legs.

"Pressure's climbing!" J.T. announced. "58/40…64/48…76/57…94/65…"

Roy stopped blowing and closed the valve back up. "That's pretty much his normal BP."

His Captain closed his valve and shot his senior paramedic an appreciative glance. "That was some pretty quick thinking!"

DeSoto exhaled a silent sigh of relief and immediately retrieved the dropped phone. It's a good thing he was thinking quickly! Because they needed to keep pace with their patient's rapidly changing condition... and the doctors at Rampart needed to be brought back up to speed.

* * *

By the time Roy finished filling the physicians in, 16's and 39's paramedics were on scene.

DeSoto briefly filled his associates in on what to expect with Stoker and Lopez.

Shock trousers were applied to the two other unconscious firefighters.

Marco's were inflated, to bring his BP back to within a palpable range.

An anti-convulsant was prepared for Mike, whose pressure was currently spiking.

"All right. Let's get these guys to the hospital!" Roy told his colleagues, as the ambulances arrived. "You can contact Rampart along the way!"

"I'll follow you guys in with the Squad," Stanley volunteered.

"The, uh, docs want you to ride in with us, Cap'," DeSoto nervously announced.

His Captain was perplexed. "Why?"

"Probably just a precaution."

"But, I'm not sick."

"Yeah. I know. I got a feeling that's one a the reasons why they wanna see you as soon as possible."

Hank heaved a resigned sigh and reached for the dangling mic' cord on the Squad's dash-mounted radio. "LA, Station 51 will be out of service until the next shift shows up."

"**10-4, Station 51**."

Station 51's Captain replaced the mic' and reluctantly climbed up into the back of one of the waiting ambulances. "¡Madre de Dios! ¡Qué noche!" he grumbled, just beneath his breath. 'Marco, my man, you sure got _that_ right!'

**TBC**

Author's note: M.A.S.T. trousers are Military/Medical Anti-Shock Trousers.

"As the name implies, the military was instrumental in the development of anti-shock trousers. Military Anti-Shock Trousers (MAST) were extensively used during the conflict in Vietnam. They are also marketed under the name Medical Anti-Shock Trousers. MAST is an inflatable garment that surrounds the legs and torso. They have three separate compartments that can be inflated. They are capable of sustaining internal pressure of approximately 100 torr. The primary use is to help slow the progress of shock, but they are also used for other purposes as well.

At first, it was thought that MAST helped reverse the signs of shock by squeezing blood out of the lower extremities into the central circulation. The theory was that the MAST worked to reverse shock in different ways. The first was by stopping any bleeding in the lower extremities (like applying direct pressure to a cut on an arm). The second was by increasing peripheral vascular resistance the lower body (squeezes more blood out but lets less blood enter the lower extremity). The third was the belief that the body was able to better perfuse the upper body while MAST were in place. Current studies have shown that MAST work in different but similar ways than originally believed. One of these is by increasing blood flow to the brain and other vital organs.

MAST are primarily used for hypovolemic shock (loss of excessive amount of blood). The MAST are designed to be applied in a rapid fashion. With practice, skilled paramedics can apply them in an average of 60 to 90 seconds. MAST are designed to be applied with the patient in a supine (face up) position. The upper part of the garment should be located just below the lowest rib. The left leg of the garment is wrapped around the patient's leg and secured with the Velcro straps. The right leg is then secured in the same manner. Finally, the abdominal compartment is secured in the same manner. Many times, color-coded straps are used to increase speed of applying. Each compartment has a stopcock valve. The trousers can be inflated with a foot pump (or in a hurry by mouth) until either air escapes from built in relief valves or vital signs are stabilized.

Once in place and inflated, the MAST should not be deflated in the field. If for some reason the MAST has to be deflated in the field, this should be done slowly and methodically with the vital signs taken after each deflation and prior to deflating further. During the deflation, the blood pressure should be checked every two minutes. A drop of 5 mm Hg or more indicates the need to stop the deflation and have 100 to 200 ml of fluid by IV until the blood pressure is stabilized. The process is continued until fully deflated."

—info gleaned from the web


	8. Chapter 8

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Eight**

'R-r-r-r-ring!'…'R-r-r-r-ring!'…'R-r-r-r-ring!'

Kel Brackett groaned awake.

The disturbed doctor's right arm was wrapped around the bare waist of the beautiful blonde in the bed beside him. He reluctantly unwrapped it and rolled stiffly over to begin groping for the irritating instrument on his nightstand. His probing appendages hit the phone. He lifted the handset and put an end to the annoying 'r-r-r-r-ringing'. He contemplated dropping the thing back into its cradle, but it was probably an emergency. No. It had _better be_ an emergency!

Kel cradled the phone in the crux of his neck, instead. "Brackett here…Hi, Ben. What's up?" The doctor's sleep-filled eyes snapped fully open and he snapped bolt upright in his bed. "Wha-at?" He swung his long legs over and planted his bare feet on the carpeted floor. "Nothing?" He leaned forward and flicked on a light, noting the time on his radio alarm. Ironically, it displayed the illuminated numbers 4:**51**.

Dixie McCall sat up in the bed, too. She'd been awake since her spoon's partner had first stirred. Kel's rather alarmed reaction to the answer to his question had alarmed her. There had to be a major emergency at the hospital. She got to her knees and leaned into the phone in an attempt to catch the other side of the conversation.

"No…Yeah…No. No problem. I'll be right in. But first, I'm gonna give Jim Hendelson a call…No. He heads the Toxicology Department at UCLA's…Because he also happens to be a personal friend a' mine…No. There's no time for politics. We'll deal with all that later…Yeah…Right…Right…That shouldn't be necessary. Just divert 10's and 36's to Shay's Memorial." Brackett put an abrupt end to the conversation and slammed the phone down. Then he donned a robe and quickly left the room.

The doctor returned a few moments later, carrying an address book. "Good morning, beautiful," he said, and gave the lovely lady kneeling in his bed a light peck on the forehead.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," the woman warned, as the man began paging through his little black book. "I know I must look a fright, because I'm always a mess, first thing in the morning."

"I was referring to your _inner_ beauty," the doctor diplomatically replied and paused in his search to plant another light kiss on his pretty companion's forehead.

Dixie cradled the handsome physician's face in her hands and kissed him full on the mouth. "You may not be the most romantic man on earth, but you do have your moments...""

"Only _moments_?" Kel inquired, sounding wounded.

The pair swapped a couple of sly smiles.

Brackett reluctantly returned to the matter at hand. He finally found the number he'd been searching for and picked up the phone. He stuck the handset back in the crux of his neck and started dialing.

It rang an interminably loooong time…before somebody finally picked up.

"Jim? Kel Brackett, here. I hate to call at such an ungodly hour, but this is an emergency. There was a fire at an abandoned chemical refinery earlier this morning and we've got three firefighters—in critical condition—who could really use your help…Mainly? Their cardiovascular systems…Sympathomimetic and adrenergic…I'm guessing the medulla, more specifically, the vagus nerve…They did. They couldn't find anything toxic…Great! I'll call the Fire Department lab people and let them know you're coming…Right…Thanks, Jim." He held the receiver down just long enough to get a dial tone back.

Dixie latched on to the doctor's dialing arm. "Kel…these three _critical_ firefighters wouldn't happen to be any of _our_ guys?" she hopefully inquired. The hospital staffers had a special place in their hearts for all fire and police men, but the guys from Station 51 had sort a' been adopted into their immediate Rampart family.

"Mike Stoker, Marco Lopez and…John Gage," the frowning physician informed her. His attention reluctantly turned to the person who had just picked up the phone. "Yes. This is Dr. Brackett…" he informed the Fire Department lab person.

"I'm going in with you," the nurse numbly announced. The woman scrambled out of bed and began donning her clothing even more hastily than it had been shed.

* * *

Dr. Benjamin Tyler stood at Rampart General's ER entrance, waiting for the three critical firefighters' ambulances to arrive.

For the umpteenth time, the physician checked off the items on his mental 'to do' list.

The next shift had been called in.

The Fire Department had been alerted. All personnel that had responded to the refinery fire had been contacted. Anyone who had experienced even the slightest of headaches was ordered to undergo an immediate medical examination.

Chet Kelly's nurses had been notified to monitor his BP even more closely than it was already being monitored.

The authorities had been asked to perform a welfare check on Squad 51's smoke inhalation victim at the refinery fire—the night watchman that had refused treatment.

Their second victim, the workman, was in ICU. So his condition was already being constantly monitored.

ICU and Cardiology had been placed on alert.

And, last, but not least, Squads 10 and 36 were diverted to the next nearest hospital.

Tyler was feeling pretty confident that he'd thought of everything. He'd better have thought of everything, because he could see the flash of dome lights coming through the underpass. He turned to face the rather large contingency of highly trained hospital staffers that had been waiting with him. "All right, people. You all know where to go and what to do. So let's do it!"

"Everybody, remember our motto!" Jeff Vermille further encouraged, as the ambulances began backing up to the doors.

Nurse Norquist turned to her closest co-worker. "What **is** our motto?"

"**If they're alive when they arrive—we keep 'em that way!**" the entire group proudly chorused.

Cheryl couldn't help but smile. Now, _that_ was a motto _worth_ remembering!

The doors opened and there was a blur of activity as designated teams directed each arriving stretcher to a predetermined destination.

"Captain," Tyler caught Hank Stanley's arm as he entered Emergency Receiving, "Dr. Gordon is waiting for you in Treatment Five."

"I'm not sick," the fireman informed him.

"Treatment Five," the doctor repeated and pointed to an exam room.

The Captain drew his weary shoulders back and headed off down the hospital corridor, in the direction of Treatment Five.

* * *

Kel and Dixie arrived at the hospital right behind the three ambulances.

"What's with the restraints?" Brackett wondered, as he followed John Gage's stretcher inside.

"Johnny became aggressive, right before he started seizing," Roy explained.

"And a workman at that refinery fire tried to part Marco Lopez's and Chet Kelly's hair with a bottle," Dr. Tyler tacked on.

"Fill me in, Ben!" Kel requested.

"That shouldn't take long," Tyler told him. "I know about as much as you do!"

* * *

Gage's stretcher was guided into Treatment Three and a team of doctors and nurses immediately went to work on him.

Brackett took the vials of their victim's drawn blood from J.T.'s extended hand and passed them to a technician. "Get these to the lab! STAT! Dr. Hendelson has already phoned in the orders!"

"What have they been exposed to, that you and the Captain haven't?" Tyler inquired of their critical comatose patient's shift-mate.

Roy stepped back from the exam table and stared sadly down at his sick friend. "At first, I thought it had to be the refinery, but the Captain was in there—and he's not sick!"

"Come on, Roy…" Kel urged. "We need to talk."

DeSoto didn't want to leave his partner. "Deflate the shock trousers if his pressure spikes again, but don't remove them. He can go from a hypertensive to a hypotensive crisis in less than a minute."

The medical personnel marveled at that bit of information and then nodded their understanding of it.

Brackett took DeSoto by the arm and began towing him toward the exit. "You can help him more, right now, by supplying some answers."

* * *

They stepped into the corridor.

The physician started steering their course toward the doctor's lounge. "I don't know about you, but I could sure use some coffee."

"He was complaining of a sinus headache when we were here, earlier," Roy began. "I didn't think too much of it, because he always gets a sinus headache when he gets water up his nose. Then, later, at a rescue, he started having migraine symptoms...and acting sort a' strange."

"Like how strange?"

They entered the lounge.

Brackett led the paramedic over to a table and then headed for the counter, to fetch them some coffee.

"I dunno," DeSoto shrugged and dropped onto a chair. "Kind a' rude, I guess. He just wasn't himself. Then he vomited and said he felt fine...said he _really felt like_ _running_."

Kel set two steaming cups down on the table and dropped into the chair across from the fireman. "Then what?"

"He started _running_! I talked him back in the truck and took him here, to get checked out."

"And—?"

"The ER was pretty busy. Gordon was the only doctor available."

Brackett winced. It was no secret how John Gage felt about 'shrinks'.

Roy stared sadly down into his steaming coffee. "I went up to check on Chet. So I don't know all the details, but I guess she didn't take his request to be examined—by _her_—seriously. Of course, I didn't find that out until we were already halfway back to the Station." He glanced up, looking even more glum. "I should have turned around, right then and there…but I didn't." His gaze dropped back to his drink.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Roy. If Johnny had been presenting, you and I both know, for a fact, that you never would have left this hospital. And, since he wasn't symptomatic—at the time, even if Ronnie had examined him, she probably wouldn't have found anything."

The paramedic gave the doctor a grateful glance. Brackett's logic should have made him feel better, but it didn't. His sad eyes re-focused on the cup cradled in his hands. "By the time we got back, he was out cold. I 'assumed' he was just asleep. So I covered him with a blanket and went to bed. The next thing I know, he's lying there on the garage floor—dying! And, he wasn't the only one!" He looked up and locked gazes with Brackett again. "What's goin' on, Doc? What is this stuff? When's it gonna wear off? I mean, their systems can't take much more a' this…"

"We don't have the answers—yet. But we're working on getting them. I've asked a friend a' mine—Dr. James Hendelson, to look into it. Jim isn't just a friend. He also happens to be a brilliant toxicologist. In fact, he heads the Toxicology Department at UCLA's Medical Cen—"

"—Dr. Brackett?"

Kel turned to the door.

A nurse had poked her head into the lounge. "Dr. Hendelson is on the line…"

"Thanks! I'll be right there!" Brackett shot the glum paramedic a hopeful glance and left to take his phone call.

Roy took his coffee and then resumed his vigil…in the ER's third treatment room.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Nine**

"I told you," Hank Stanley patiently repeated, following a full fifteen minutes of poking and probing and prodding, "I'm not sick."

"Yes," Gordon agreed. "But _why_ aren't you sick?"

The Captain, who had traded his turnouts for a set of surgical scrubs, hopped down from the exam table and began heading for the exit. "I'm gonna go check up on my men."

The physician intercepted the fleeing fireman. "Captain, you need to get back up on that table!"

Hank gave the little lady a look that said he was through taking her orders. "The only thing I need to do, right now, is check on my men!"

Gordon stood her ground. "It's important that you to tell me _everything_ that's happened to you and your crew, since your shift start—"

"—Fine," the Captain relented. "I'll tell you _everything_…over a cup a' coffee," his dark eyes narrowed again into no-nonsense slits, "just as soon as I finish checking up on my men!"

'Brash. Bold. Gritty. Gallant. Fiercely independent. Highly motivated. Driven by duty. Extremely self-assured and—above all—concerned with the welfare of the men in his command.'

The Captain possessed some pretty impressive attributes—all the qualities one would need, in order to lead a group of guys _into_ a building everybody else is running _out_ of.

The 'shrink' finished her brief 'psyche' evaluation and flashed the fire officer just the slightest of smiles. "I'll be waiting for you in the doctor's lounge," she quietly announced and quickly stepped aside.

Stanley accepted the doctor's terms of surrender with an even slighter smile. He pushed, and then held, the door open for her. "After you…"

Gordon gave him a grateful nod and exited the exam room.

The fireman followed closely in her wake.

'_Very_ gallant,' the shrink silently re-evaluated, as the gentleman headed off down the hall—to go check up on his men. She flashed the Captain's back another slight smile and then headed for the coffee-maker in the lounge.

* * *

Dr. Brackett stepped out of the Base Station and spotted Dr. Early coming down the hall. "Joe! Am I glad to see you! 16's is bringing in a cardiac arrest. Can you handle it?"

"Sure, Kel! But what's going on?"

"Great! I'll explain later!" Kel promised and handed his open-mouthed colleague a medical chart. "They're setting up for you in Five!"

Early closed his mouth and started heading for Treatment Five.

Bracket did an about face and then quickly disappeared in the opposite direction. He was running a little late.

* * *

Hendelson had requested a meeting with Brackett, and the rest of Rampart's ER staff.

So Kel gathered his colleagues together in the doctor's lounge, which had been sort a' transformed into a conference room...with the addition of a half-dozen more chairs, a white board and some erasable markers.

Two LA County Fire Department Battalion Chiefs, Captain Hank Stanley and paramedic Roy DeSoto had also received invitations to attend their group's little gathering. The four firemen sat together, at a table near the back of the room.

When Brackett finally arrived, fashionably late, he found his fellow physicians discussing exposure scenarios.

Ben Tyler was nodding glumly in agreement, to something Ronnie Gordon had just said. The doctor studied his notes for a few moments and then brightened. "Stoker and Gage were in the water."

Ronnie Gordon glanced up from her notes. "So was Kelly and Lopez wasn't. Besides, the water checked out."

Mark Herron looked thoughtful. "The three sick men all had their masks off."

"So did Kelly and Captain Stanley," Ronnie reminded him. "The Captain's air bottle emptied while he was lowering Mike Stoker into the vat and it took him a few minutes to swap his empty SCBA for Gage's."

"Well, I don't think it was ingested. Everyone on the Engine crew ate the exact same meals," Keith Doughty contributed. "And Roy said that he and John didn't get the chance to eat anything at their Station yesterday."

"It has to be the refinery!" Tyler insisted.

Mark Herron nodded. "Maybe it has to do with when they took their masks off and how long they went without them? For instance, the toxin could have been concentrated in the steam, up under the roof and down in the vat…"

"Yes, but Kelly was up near the roof and down in the vat," Gordon promptly pointed out.

"True," Tyler conceded. "But while he was up on the catwalk, he had his mask in place, and when he was down in the vat, he wasn't breathing—until Gage gave him AR. Even then, he was getting recycled air—until John started him on oxygen."

"I just remembered," Keith Doughty interjected. "DeSoto said Gage and Lopez took some aspirin."

"According to the Captain," Gordon added, following a quick glance at her notes, "Stoker took some aspirin, too."

"Check it out!" Herron urged.

"That won't be necessary," someone suddenly assured them.

All eyes turned to the door, as Dixie McCall escorted a young man, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a jean jacket, into the room.

The long-brown-haired, brown-eyed fellow flashed the group a slight smile and held up a small black briefcase. "We've identified the causative agent."

Brackett stepped up to his young friend and extended a hand. "Thanks for coming, Jim."

"Kel," Jim acknowledged. He gave the older doctor a warm smile and his proffered appendage a heartfelt shake. "I'd a' been here sooner, but it took awhile to feed all of our findings into the university's computer."

"This is Dr. James Hendelson," Brackett introduced. "He heads the Toxicology Department at UCLA's Medical Center."

The new guy nodded politely to the group and then crossed quickly over to the white board. Hendelson placed his briefcase on the floor and pulled the cap off of one of the erasable marker pens. "p-Nitro," he spoke, as he printed, "sodi…methyl…ani…line." He turned to face the group.

"That's a Class 135 substance," Hank Stanley recognized. "Water sensitive—reacts violently upon contact with H2O." The reaction can be explosive and generate an incredible amount of heat. "Is that what caused the initial explosions?"

"One of the causes." Hendelson saw the way his questioner was dressed and cocked an eyebrow.

Kel caught the young doctor's look of confusion. "He's the three critical firefighters' Captain."

Jim nodded thoughtfully and then turned back to the board. "Magnesium…diamide," he printed, right below the first chemical.

"Another Class 135 compound," Station 51's Captain realized, even more volatile than the first, when combined with water.

"Correct," Hendelson told him. "It was a combination of both of these substances coming into contact with water that caused the explosions and combustion to occur."

"Why weren't our lab boys able to find anything?" one of the Battalion Chiefs wondered.

"Because there wasn't anything left to find," Jim replied. "The only way we were able to identify these substances, is by the 'fingerprint' they left behind." He turned back to the board and began printing and speaking out loud again. "Di…methyl…chloryl…silo…toxa…phene." He finished and promptly faced the group again. "That's one lo-ong word. Contains two more letters than the alphabet. We've just been calling it DMCST. Fortunately, DMCST is a rarely occurring compound. The reason DMCST occurs so rarely is because it is the decomposition product that results when p-Nitrosodimethylaniline and Magnesium diamide are simultaneously exposed to water. Such an unlikely occurrence has only been known to have happened twice, counting this instance."

"Why weren't our lab boys able to find this DMCST stuff?" the other Battalion Chief wanted to know.

"Because it had completely dissipated by the time they arrived. There wasn't a trace left in the place. However, it also left a 'fingerprint'…of sorts. We fed all the data from the refinery—and this hospital—into the university's computer and it kicked out DMCST as being the causative agent. It seems the three critical firefighters' symptoms are identical to those experienced by workers exposed to a nerve agent at a chemical plant fire in Dupree, Scotland in 1968. That agent was later identified as the decomposition product: DMCST." Hendelson stooped to pull a thin black folder from his briefcase. "Everything known about DMCST is in here—which, as you can see, isn't much."

A nurse entered the room and passed Dr. Brackett a folded slip of paper.

Kel opened the note and perused it. The right corner of his mouth twitched a couple of times. Then he glanced up and relayed the message's contents on to the entire group. "The police found the night watchman…dead…in his apartment."

Tyler exchanged anxious glances with his fellow physicians and then turned to their guest lecturer. "So what's the treatment? We need to get started right away!"

Their young visitor's face filled with a profound sadness. "The onset of symptoms—extreme headache, wildly fluctuating blood pressure, combativeness and seizures—is followed by a feeling of severe tightness in the chest. Pupils become pinpoint. The patient becomes more and more unresponsive, slips into a coma…and never regains consciousness. There is no 'known' treatment. I'm sorry to say that all six of those chemical plant workers in Scotland…died."

The stunned silence in the lounge was shattered, as another nurse suddenly poked her head through its slightly open portal. "Dr. Doughty, you're needed in Treatment Three!"

All five of the physicians that were there in the room promptly filed out, closely followed by one deeply-troubled looking head nurse and one still-stunned—and incredibly concerned-looking—paramedic.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Ten**

The conference attendees spilled into Exam Three.

Nurse Norquist had the patient in a reverse Trendelenberg position. The MAST trousers had been deflated and his trach' tube had been pulled.

"He came to and started gagging on his airway," Cheryl informed Gage's doctor. "His pressure began spiking. So I gradually deflated the MAST. Pulse is 120. Pressure's 238/222 and climbing. The patient is in extreme pain."

The woman's last comment was a bit redundant. The patient's groans were drowning out the rapid chirping of his heart monitor, which showed clear evidence of his sinus tachycardia.

Doughty studied his patient's medical chart for a few somber moments. Then he scribbled down some orders and passed the chart on to his colleagues.

His fellow physicians took note of what he wrote and, one by one, all five nodded their approval.

Dr. Herron handed the chart to Gage's nurse.

Cheryl stared down at the clipboard. Two drugs had been prescribed, Cardene—for the spiking BP, and Demerol—for the extreme pain. She promptly proceeded to carry out the doctor's 'new and approved' orders.

Gage gasped in relief, as the excruciating pain that was burning in his brain slowly began to recede. His groans subsided as his agony diminished, and he gradually stopped tossing his hurting head. His breathing remained labored, however. It was rather difficult for him to breathe. It felt like four big guys were sitting on his chest.

Someone was lifting his tightly closed lids and flicking a light in his eyes. He forced them open a crack and took a little look around. If there were four big guys sitting on his chest, they were invisible. He was strapped to a table in Exam Three, in a reverse Trendelenberg position, surrounded by at least a half a dozen very worried-looking doctors. 'Uh-oh. That can't be good.' That could _never_ be good.

Keith saw that his patient's eyes were voluntarily open. "Can you hear me, John?"

John closed his eyes and nodded.

"How's the pain?"

Gage coughed and gagged as his first few attempts at talking failed. His mouth was too dry and his throat was too sore. Someone held a small chunk of ice up to his lips. The icy object began melting and lubricating his parched palate. His tightly shut eyes fluttered back open and he aimed them in the ice-dispenser's direction. Not surprisingly, he found his partner's troubled blue eyes staring back at him. His lubricated lips formed a slight smile. "Thanks," he managed to mutter, in a cracked hoarse whisper.

Roy returned his smile. "Hey, no problem. So-o…how **is** the pain?"

"Better…took the edge off."

Doughty turned to Gage's nurse. "Give him another 50 milligrams."

Cheryl nodded and promptly injected the adjusted dosage of Demerol into the patient's IV port.

Dr. Hendelson had picked the patient's chart back up. "I can see where this is going to add quite a bit to the folder already," he mumbled, mostly to himself. Then he turned to his fellow doctors. "Gentlemen, can I speak with you—privately?"

The physicians followed their mysterious colleague from the room.

"Pressure's dropping…steadily," Cheryl informed Dr. Doughty. "Pulse is still 120 and the patient remains dyspneac."

"Continue to monitor his vitals closely and re-inflate the MAST if he drops below his normal BP," Doughty ordered.

The nurse nodded, and the doctor disappeared—out the door. Cheryl studied her patient's face carefully.

The taut muscles in John's jaw were now relaxed. The deep furrows had disappeared from his forehead and his eyes were no longer clamped tightly shut.

She exhaled a silent sigh of relief and began gathering another, newer set of vitals.

"Anybody else sick?" John wondered.

"Mike and Marco," Roy regrettably replied.

"How they doin'?"

"'Bout the same as you."

Gage's nasal canula was making his nose itch. He tried to raise his right arm, but found his wrists were…restrained. "I see…I've earned the…naughty patient…bracelets." His eyes snapped open and he glanced anxiously in DeSoto's direction. "I didn't try to…brain…any firemen…with a bottle…did I?"

"Nah-ah. But you did manage to brain a fire **truck**…with your **O2** bottle. Left a nice little dent in the side of the Squad."

"Ahhh, ma-an," Gage declared with a grimace. "Charlie's gonna…_kill_ me!" 'If I'm not already dea—' he stopped himself right there, in mid-thought. He wasn't sure if you could even be assigned 'latrine duty' in the great hereafter, but it didn't matter. He respected the Captain too much to knowingly disobey one of his orders.

"Eh, I'll just tell him we were going down a really rough road and a rock bounced up and dinged it," Roy offered. "What?" he wondered, upon seeing his partner's highly skeptical stare. "He _may_ buy it…**if** I can rub all that green paint off," he tentatively tacked on, and the two friends swapped smiles.

* * *

In the corridor, just outside of Exam Three, the doctors had reconvened their little conference.

"Look at the timeline for symptom onset for those six Scottish workers," Hendelson requested of the doctors that were huddled around him and his open DMCST folder. "If exposure occurred sometime around midnight, he should already be comatose."

"His pupils _have_ started to constrict," Doughty reported.

"Yes, but they should have become pinpoint, by now. Thank you," Hendelson paused to accept and study the charts Miss McCall had just fetched for him. "These other two men are unresponsive, but they should also be comatose by now."

"So, what are you saying?" Dr. Tyler finally came right out and asked.

"I'm saying that they must've done something to arrest the toxin's normal progression. Its effects weren't entirely halted…just delayed a little."

"Could it have been the aspirin?" Dr. Gordon wondered.

"No," Hendelson told her. "The workers in Scotland all took aspirin, too." He saw the woman gazing glumly down at her notes. "Why don't we just go ask him," he suggested and re-entered Exam Three.

Once again, his fellow physicians followed closely on his heels.

* * *

Fortunately, the fireman was still conscious.

Hendelson stepped right up to the now sleepy-looking patient. "Hi. My name is Jim…Jim Hendelson. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The exam table was no longer tilted. So John had to turn his head to see who had just addressed him.

"'Doctor' Hendelson is with UCLA's Medical Center," Roy explained and exchanged another slight smile with his partner.

Even without the handlebar mustache, the young physician's long locks and casual appearance put them both in mind of a certain 'Doctor' Frick.

"Ask…away," Gage groggily invited, between gasped breaths. His medication was making him a little drowsy. At least, he hoped it was.

"Did you notice anything that you, or anybody else, might have done that seemed to relieve your symptoms?"

The patient took a loooong time to reply. Finally, he nodded. "Running…and ralphing."

Hendelson's eyebrows arched. "Running and ralphing?"

John managed another sleepy nod. "You know…barfing." His already drooping eyes closed.

"Was there anything else you may have noticed?"

The fireman shook his head. "Just…the Demerol."

"How are you feeling now?"

"I'm kind a'…restless…I feel like…running."

Hendelson and his associates exchanged amazed glances.

Gage mumbled something incoherent.

"He says," DeSoto solemnly deciphered, "he feels like there are four big invisible guys…" he swallowed hard, "sitting on his chest."

The group exchanged anxious glances. Time was rapidly running out.

John's doctor looked completely puzzled. "I don't get it," he declared in a hushed voice. "He couldn't even stand up! How can he possibly feel like running?"

Brackett was equally baffled. "Why does he feel like running? And why would running alleviate his symptoms?"

Hendelson stared down at his DMCST folder looking very thoughtful—and even more determined. "The answer to those questions _could_ lead to a viable treatment," he stated and started heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Kel inquired.

"Running!" the young doctor called back over his shoulder. Then he pushed the portal open and disappeared out into the hall.

"Hang in there, partner!" Roy gently urged.

John gave his restraints a slight tug. "With…both…wrists," he assured him in a whisper. Then his slightly crooked smile vanished, and his head rolled limply to one side.

Nurse Norquist dropped what she was doing and quickly checked his consciousness level.

The patient was…unresponsive.

**TBC**

Author's note: A Trendelenberg position is just medical jargon for lowering the patient's upper body and elevating his/her lower body. A reverse Trendelenberg position means that the exam table was titled so that John's upper body was elevated and his legs were lowered.

Additional note: Dyspneac is just medical jargon for saying that the patient is having difficulty breathing and sinus tachycardia is just medical jargon for a rapid heart rate.

Additional additional note: Some readers have asked if the chemicals used in this fic' are the real deal.

p-Nitrosodimethylaniline and Magnesium diamide are both **real** chemicals. They really **are** Class 135 compounds that react violently when they come into contact with H2O. They explode and release a tremendous amount of heat.

Exposure to these toxins would cause very similar symptoms to those Da Boys are currently experiencing.

The decomposition product: Dimethylchlorylsilotoxaphene is purely a _product_ of my overactive imagination. :D


	11. Chapter 11

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Eleven**

Roy stared down at the electrodes that were taped to his partner's heaving chest—the tiny sensors in charge of monitoring his racing heart's electrical activity.

John Gage had a good, strong heart, but it couldn't—and wouldn't—go on functioning at the rapid rate of 120 beats per minute _forever_.

DeSoto figured he had two options. He could remain at his friend's side, until his heart finally gave out…or he could go help Dr. Hendelson try to find a way to keep his best friend's heart going. As much as he hated the thought of leaving the room, his choice really _was_ a 'no brainer'.

Roy rested a hand on one of his friend's restrained wrists and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'll be back," he promised and then requested of his partner, "wait for me, Johnny…"

* * *

DeSoto exited Exam Three, spotted Dr. Hendelson on the phone at the Nurses' Station and went hurrying up to him.

Hendelson ended his conversation and hung up the phone. He now had designated runners at both UCLA's and the LACFD's labs. The young doctor had just organized a sort a' DMCST Cure Marathon. "Is something wrong?" he asked the firefighter who'd come trotting up to him.

The fireman extended a hand. "Roy DeSoto," he introduced. "John Gage is my paramedic partner. I'd really like to help—if I can…"

The physician shook the fireman's hand. "Jim Hendelson. You say, you're a _paramedic_?"

The paramedic nodded.

Hendelson grinned. "That's great! Because I'm gonna need someone to draw arterial and venous blood samples. Do you think you could take the samples and then bring them down to the lab for me?"

"Sure!" Roy readily replied.

"Splendid! See if you can find someplace to set up. Right now, I gotta run." With that said, Hendelson waved and started heading for the ER's exit—at a run.

* * *

The runner returned from his second lap around the hospital.

Upon Dr. Brackett's approval, DeSoto had conveniently set the 'blood drawing site' up in Treatment Three.

While the winded doctor read the initial lab report, Roy drew some more venous and arterial blood samples from him.

Hendelson scrutinized the chart in his hands.

Red blood cell counts, hematocrit, total hemoglobin and white blood cell counts had significantly increased from the samples Miss McCall had initially drawn. So had plasma lipids, proteins, and antioxidants. Uric acid (p0.05) and cholesterol (p0.01) had risen significantly. Sodium, potassium, glucose, lactate dehydrogenase, creatinine, creatine phosphokinase, triglycerides, cholesterol, number, uric acid, carbon dioxide, and iron—all of the blood parameters had increased significantly, with the exceptions of plasma glucose and carbon dioxide which had both decreased.

The still-breathless physician frowned and then gasped in frustration.

Despite significant changes in blood chemistry—lactic acid was way up and venous pH was way down—and blood gases—arterial CO 2 had decreased approximately 3 Torr and venous CO 2 had increased—none of these blood parameter differences had had the slightest effect on the toxin…**so far**.

The paramedic taped a couple of cotton compresses over the draw sites and the young doctor took off—running.

DeSoto followed the physician out the door and then headed for the hospital's lab—with two more vials of the runner's freshly-drawn blood.

* * *

The phone at the Nurses' Station rang.

Dixie answered it. "Emergency Receiving, Miss McCall..." There was a long, one-sided conversation, with Miss McCall doing most of the listening. "Yes…Yes, I see," she said at last. "Thanks for letting us know, Meg." She hung up and headed for Treatment Five.

* * *

Dixie slipped silently into the exam room, where the head of Emergency Receiving was currently closing a three-inch gash in an eight-year-old boy's forehead.

Nurse McCall approached him. "Kel, ICU just called," she solemnly informed the busy physician. "That workman died…"

The doctor was extremely saddened, but not surprised, by the news. He nodded his acknowledgement of the message. Then he tied off the last of his sixteen sutures and flashed his young patient a warm smile. "There you go, Brady. We're a-all done. You're a very brave little boy. Now, just try to remember **not** to _run_ in the house."

Brady nodded.

"Finish up in here for me, will you, Carol," Kel told, more than asked, the young nurse who'd been assisting him

"Yes, Doctor."

Brackett took the message deliverer by the elbow and ushered her out into the hall.

* * *

"His heart just gave out," Dixie answered, before the doctor could even ask.

"Have there been any changes with the other five?"

The nurse shook her head. "Captain Stanley and Chet Kelly remain symptom free and the other three remain unresponsive."

"What's the latest from the labs?"

"So far, none of the blood samples—drawn from any of the runners—have had any effect on the toxin," Dixie regrettably replied.

Brackett saw the light flashing at the Paramedics' Base Station. He gave the nurse's arm a slight squeeze and then headed off down the hall to answer the call.

* * *

Hank Stanley re-entered Exam Two.

Mike Stoker's young bride, Karen, now stood at her husband's side, clutching his limp left hand in both of hers. The woman saw the way the Captain was dressed and was forced to smile. "You look just like a doctor."

"The hospital people must think so, too," the Captain confessed. He stepped up to the exam table and then stood there, directly across from her. "This get-up gets me into the treatment rooms—no questions asked."

Karen Stoker gazed at her husband's Captain through tear-filled eyes. "I can't get anybody to tell me what's going on."

Stanley stared sadly down at his engineer—and friend. "They've been exposed to an extremely toxic nerve agent. The poison is affecting their cardio-vascular systems. It's causing their blood vessels to constrict and dilate. So their BP fluctuates from dangerously high…to dangerously low. And it's causing their hearts to beat much faster than normal. It's also affecting their central nervous systems…which is why they're unconscious. Right now, three separate labs—and a whole slew a' doctors—are trying to find a way to reverse the toxin's effects."

The young woman's smile briefly reappeared. "You even sound like a doctor," she bravely managed to come back, before finally bursting into tears.

Hank raced around the table and up to her side.

Karen took the Captain up on his offer for a comforting hug and then she stood there, for quite a long while, crying on his shoulder.

* * *

Hank took a few minutes to regroup, before re-entering Treatment One.

There were a lot of new faces in the exam room. A few of them were familiar.

Marco's mother was there, along with two of his sisters, one brother and an aunt.

Mrs. Lopez paused, right in the middle of her rosary, to give the strangely-dressed fireman, who had just stepped into the room, a huge hug. The woman had somehow sensed that her Son's Captain could really use a hug right then.

Hank blinked his vision clear and then hugged Marco's mom right back.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twelve**

When Stanley re-entered Exam Three, he was not surprised to find the room completely devoid of visitors.

Both of Gage's parents were dead and his best friend was being kept pretty busy—running back and forth to the lab for Hendelson.

He knew John had an older sister who lived and worked somewhere outside of the US. He'd also heard talk of an aunt and uncle, and a couple of cousins, down around San Jacinto.

But the paramedic had no close relatives—er, rather, relatives close enough to be there for him. Even if John's next of kin had been notified, it was doubtful that any of them would make it there…leastways, not in time.

Roy returned from one of his many lab runs just then and caught his Captain staring sadly, and silently, down at his partner. "Don't. You. Even. THINK it," he softly said.

Hank stiffened and turned his head. His rugged face and damp eyes were filled with sorrow.

The paramedic's face filled with concern. The sadness emanating from his Captain was so profound it was almost palpable. "Isn't that what I heard you telling him… back there…in the garage?"

Cheryl glanced up from her patient. That would certainly explain why she couldn't seem to place the doctor's unfamiliar face. The stranger who kept popping in and out of the exam room in his surgical scrubs wasn't a surgeon. He was a fireman.

The Captain's sorrowful gaze returned to the young man occupying the exam table. "He had that same look in his eyes that Rick had. Like he knew he was dying…and he had already come to terms with it…" Hank hesitated a moment or two, before continuing. "Rick Melchori was my closest friend. We went through the Academy together.

As luck would have it, we got assigned to the same stationhouse. The two of us worked together at 127's for six years.

Then we found out we'd both passed our Engineer's exams and our careers suddenly went separate ways.

Even though we were no longer working with one another on a daily basis, we managed to maintain our friendship—off-duty.

On occasion, our companies would get called out to the same incident scene and we'd find ourselves working together again.

It was my final year at 14's. Both our Houses got toned out to a bad one—an apartment building…fully involved.

Rick's Company had a rookie Captain…" Hank momentarily halted his narrative.

"The Official Report listed: 'Failure to properly deploy apparatus upon arrival at an incident scene'.

The entire front of the building collapsed. Rick was buried—right along with his engine.

We managed to get him dug out fairly fast, but he had suffered some serious internal injuries.

An ambulance was on the way and I _begged_ him to hang on.

He heard my voice and opened his eyes. But… when he looked up at me…I could see that he'd already accepted his death as a done deal.

He just gave up…and died…right there in my arms."

Nurse Norquist wanted to give the fireman, who'd so tragically lost his friend, a big hug. She settled instead for a blurry sympathetic glance.

Stanley glanced back in DeSoto's direction. "If the state legislature had given you guys the go ahead, just six days sooner, someone like you—or John, here—could've been there, to keep him going. If Rick could've gotten just a little a' this stuff," he tapped Gage's IV bag, "my best friend might still be here…and the two of us would get to watch our daughters graduate together this year. His youngest and my oldest are the same age," Hank added, by way of an explanation. Then he quickly returned to his narrative. "I passed the Captain's Exam that same year."

The nurse's mouth fell open. So-o…this guy wasn't just another fireman. He was Roy and John's boss! No wonder he kept popping in and out of the room!

"But I waited until there was an opening at a station with paramedics working out of it, before finally accepting my promotion.

It's funny how things sometimes just…work out. I ended up with the greatest bunch a guys—" the Captain's voice cracked with emotion.

Roy stepped up to his Captain and placed a comforting hand upon his sagging shoulder. "You're right. It **is** funny…how things sometimes just...work out. We ended up with a pretty great guy, ourselves…"

Hank gave his young friend a grateful glance, but then stood there, looking highly skeptical.

The paramedic was suddenly even more concerned. His Captain's confidence seemed to be shaken to its very core.

Having four members of your five-man crew end up in the hospital, during a single shift—three of them in critical condition and quite possibly dying_—_**could** have a tendency to do that to you.

DeSoto decided to take a different approach. "Yah know, you've been with us about six years now. And, during that time, I can remember you going over **at least** a half a dozen different scenarios for an incident at that refinery. You've got that building's floor plans permanently etched into our brains!

But I must have been absent on the day you ran the _workman in a chemical-induced psychosis attacks us with an empty booze bottle_…and the _some ridiculously rare toxic substance—that only occurs when some multi-billion dollar corporation tries to cut costs by hiring an unlicensed contractor to clean their new refinery—poisons us_ scenarios."

Hank couldn't help but smile. Roy was right. Those were two they'd certainly never covered—ahead a' time. He gave the paramedic another grateful glance. The younger man's wise remarks had helped put things back into perspective. "I think I'll go check on the other guys again."

Roy gave the man's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

As his Captain headed for the exit, his broad shoulders were a bit straighter and the confidence was back in his step.

Gage's labored breathing was now the only sound in the room.

DeSoto set the latest lab reports down on a counter and stepped quickly over to the equipment stand beside the exam table.

There was a plastic cup filled with half-melted ice setting there.

The fireman fished another ice chip out of it and then held the slippery object up to his gasping partner's parched lips.

* * *

Veronica Gordon had volunteered to sit with Cheryl's patient, while the nurse took a brief bathroom break.

Stanley re-entered the room just in time to hear the shrink apologizing to Gage, for having failed to examine him when he'd asked her to. "You wouldn't have found anything, anyway," John's Captain assured her.

Gordon was obviously embarrassed that somebody had overheard her apology. "And what medical knowledge do you possess that prompts you to make that statement, _Captain_?" She'd heard it said, that 'clothes make the man'. 'Put a fireman in a doctor's clothes and, right away, he starts to think he's a doctor.'

The Captain was forced to smile. "My statement is not based on a knowledge of **medicine**, _Doctor_. It's based on a knowledge of **my** **men**. I know my men. So I know—for a certainty—that if this young man had been showing even the teensiest-tiniest little sign of being sick, Roy DeSoto **never** would have let him leave this hospital."

Roy happened to be returning from his latest trip to the lab just then. He didn't get to hear any of what Dr. Gordon had said, but he'd managed to catch all of his Captain's comments. The words rang true. But, somehow, they still didn't make him feel any better.

* * *

Joe Early exited Exam Five. He hurried down the hall and up to the ER's Nurses' Station, where Miss McCall and Captain Stanley were conversing, over coffee. "Any news?" he asked.

Dixie frowned and shook her head.

Brackett walked up and tossed a medical chart down on the counter. "Is Hendelson still running around out there?"

The nurse nodded again and glanced at her watch. "So far, he's gone four laps around the hospital. He must be getting tired. He should have been back from his fifth by now…" Her words trailed off as the tardy runner came jogging up. "Do you want Roy to draw another blood sample?"

The young doctor was breathing too hard to speak. So he simply shook his head. He leaned forward and rested his hands on his bent knees. "I think…I've got it!" the sweat-drenched physician finally got out, between gasped breaths. He swiped the perspiration from his sweaty brow. "It has…nothing to do…with changes in blood chemistry…or blood gases!" He glanced up at his colleagues and grinned. "I was just about to call it quits…when it hit me! I was going to quit…because I finally realized…the only thing I had succeeded in doing was…to work up...a good sweat!…And, why was I sweating?…Because my body was **heating up**!…Don't you see?…The toxin must be **heat labile!**…It's not blood chemistry at all…It's blood **temperature**!"

Kel and Joe exchanged thoughtful glances.

Captain Stanley looked both hopeful and amazed. The solution couldn't _really_ be something as simple as _that_…could it?

The recovered runner turned to Miss McCall. "Would you happen to have an oral thermometer handy?"

Dixie pulled a sterile thermometer from her pocket, shook it down and then passed it to him.

Hendelson promptly placed the instrument beneath his tongue and pursed his lips.

* * *

Two looooong minutes later, Dixie snatched her thermometer back and took a careful look at the level of its mercury. "102.2."

"Okay. We know that at 102.2 the toxin's progression is slowed—significantly. What we don't know, is the temperature it's going to take to destroy it—entirely. I'll have the labs begin—"

"—While your boys are experimenting in the labs, we'll be experimenting on them!" Kel announced. "We'll elevate their body temperatures to the safest possible degree—and then see what happens!" He glanced in Joe's direction.

"What have we got to lose?" his colleague concurred.

Dr. Hendelson began reaching for a phone.

Dr. Brackett began barking out orders.

Hendelson hung up the phone.

Hank suddenly remembered something—something which he had deemed insignificant at the time, but now seemed pretty darn pertinent. "When I went to check on Stoker and Lopez, I noticed that they'd thrown some extra blankets on their bunks…"

The young researcher flashed the informant a grateful grin. He loved it when missing puzzle pieces came together.

**TBC**

Author's note: If something is said to be heat labile, that means heat has a deleterious effect on it.

Kind a' like how kryptonite has a deleterious effect on Superman. :D


	13. Chapter 13

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirteen**

Miss McCall entered Treatment Three and stepped right up to the exam table, where Miss Norquist still stood, faithfully monitoring the fireman's vital signs. "I thought you were told to go home," Dixie reminded the off-duty nurse.

Cheryl pulled the stethoscope from her ears and glanced up. "I can't help it. I didn't want to leave here until I was sure the heat treatment was going to work."

Dixie stared down at the sweating young man for a few moments and then managed a bitter smile. "That's understandable."

"Uhh-ummm," Gage groaned and began tossing his sweaty head from side to side. "Hot…too ho-ot," he complained in a breathless whisper. "Too-oo hot," he repeated and tried to squirm out from under the mountain of thermal blankets THEY had him buried beneath. But he was too weak to struggle. So he just gave up and lay there, moaning…and sweating.

The door opened again and doctors Brackett, Early, Morton, Tyler and Hendelson came strolling into the room, looking rather pleased with themselves. They studied the patient's chart and heartbeat monitor for a few minutes, and then directed their attention towards Cheryl.

"His temperature has been 105.5 for a little over an hour now," the nurse reported. "His pressure has remained steady—right around 93/65. His pulse is currently 80 and regular."

The physicians glanced at each other and grinned outright.

"The other two firemen's vital signs have returned to near normal, too," Hendelson reported right back.

Kel turned to Dixie. "We'll continue the heat treatment for a few more hours. In the meantime, let's get them upstairs and put them to bed!"

Dixie nodded and stepped over to the phone on the wall, to place a call.

Dr. Tyler turned to his tired shift-mate. "It's time for the two of us to go home and get some sleep!"

Miss Norquist flashed the physician a half-hearted smile and nodded.

Mike Morton turned to Hendelson and extended a hand. "Let me be the first to congratulate you on your unusual research methods and positively brilliant—life-saving—medical discovery, Doctor!"

"Why, thank you!" the 'brilliant researcher' modestly stated and shook his colleague's hand, and the hands of the other people that were there in the treatment room. "Actually, I made two discoveries while I was out there running around," the toxicologist confessed. "I also discovered that I'm not in as good a shape as I thought I was," he patted his tummy a few times. "I was wiped out before I even completed that first lap! Only my undying dedication to scientific research kept me going."

His associates smiled and rolled their eyes.

Speaking of going…

He and his fellow doctors began filing from the room.

"Whew!" Hendelson glanced down at his underarms. "I need a shower!"

His colleagues grinned and snickered out into the hall.

Jim stopped in the open doorway and glanced back over his shoulder. He flashed the moaning sweaty fireman a sad, sympathetic smile. 'Oh well…Being hot has gotta be better than being dead,' the young doctor silently reminded himself. Then he exhaled an exhausted sigh and headed off—in search of the nearest shower.

* * *

Chet Kelly had spent the past eight hours or so sort a' 'out of it'. He slowly battled his way through the haze of painkillers and sedatives and aimed his dazed gaze up at the pretty, smiling face that had just appeared within his limited field of vision. "Hi, doll…" he mumbled sleepily. "What time is it?"

The nurse's smile evaporated. "Time for you to eat," she tersely replied. "And the name is Ms. Banner."

"Sure, doll…anything you say."

This time, her entire face vanished.

Chet attempted to raise his head a little, to see where the pretty girl had disappeared to. Mista-ake! Any movement—even just breathing a bit too deeply—produced an horrendous amount of pain. But the hurt caused by that last move had taken Kelly's breath completely away.

The girl heard him gasp and hurried back up to his bedside.

Her trauma patient was in acute respiratory distress.

Ms. Banner placed an oxygen mask over the young fireman's nose and mouth and then pressed the panic button.

* * *

Several anxious, agonizing minutes—and two hypos—later, the assembled hospital team finally had their trauma patient breathing comfortably on his own again.

The doctors and nurses gradually began filing from the room.

"Don't move a single muscle," Ms. Banner sternly ordered. "If you want something, use your call button," she admonished further and promptly placed the corded device in the palm of her patient's left hand.

"If I can't move a muscle," Kelly quietly inquired, "how do you expect me to press it?"

Ms. Banner couldn't help but smile. "Is that just your medication talking? Or, are you always such a comedian?"

Chet paid about as much attention to her question as she had to his. "Can you raise this bed up a little?"

"No."

"But…I can't see _anything_, lying down like this."

"That's okay. Because there isn't _anything_ to see."

"Then I'll settle for whatever's out there. For instance, what's all that 'beeping'?"

"Okay. Close your eyes and picture three other hospital beds, three sleeping patients and three heart monitors."

"Cool! I have company." Kelly slowly and carefully turned his head to the left.

A motionless body was lying in the bed next to his. The guy was buried beneath a mountain of blankets—and his wrists were _strapped_ to the side rails!

"What's wrong with him?" Chet nervously inquired. "He's not dangerous, is he?" He'd already been attacked by one whack-o. He didn't want another turn.

Ms. Banner glanced in the direction of his gaze. "_That_ is what we do to patients who won't lie still when they're told to."

"Seriously. What's wrong with him? I mean, what's with the straps? He crazy, or somethin'?"

"I heard they brought all three of these guys in earlier this morning. They're suffering from some toxic reaction, or something. I don't know all of the details. I just came on duty a half an hour ago. Now, are you going to lie still? Or am I gonna have to sedate you?"

"Don't worry, Ms. Banner. I'll be good."

She flashed the subdued fireman a warm smile and gave the back of his hand a few comforting pats. "I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Kelly…and, the name's Gwen."

Chet returned her smile. He heard Gwen exit the room. Which meant he was now on his own. He rolled his head back toward the bed beside his and kept one wary eye peeled on the guy with the straps on his wrists.

* * *

A few minutes later, another nurse walked into the room. The woman took vitals from the three sleeping men and then stepped up to her conscious patient's bed. "Hi."

Kelly managed a half-hearted smile. "Hi."

"I'm supposed to find out if you're hungry…"

"If I had any hunger pains, the hypos must a' got rid of them."

"Do feel up to eating something?"

"What can I eat?"

"What do you feel like eating—er, drinking?" the woman quickly corrected, following a glance at his chart.

Her already glum patient suddenly looked even glummer. "That figures,"

"Eh. I've heard hospital food is pretty lousy, anyway," the nurse teased, in an attempt to cheer him up.

"It can't be any worse than Firehouse cooking," Kelly assured her.

"Firehouse cooking?" the nurse repeated, sounding somewhat amazed. "You mean to tell me that you're a fireman, too?"

"What a' yah mean 'too'?"

The woman waved her arm around the room. "Your roommates are all firemen."

Her glum patient suddenly perked up a little. "Oh yeah?"

The nurse nodded. "Maybe you know them." She stepped over to the bed beside his and picked up its occupant's chart. "Does the name…_John Gage_ ring a bell?"

Upon hearing the patient's name, Chet's body tensed. The pain took his breath away and he gasped.

The nurse heard him gasp and hurried back up to his bedside.

Her trauma patient was in acute respiratory distress.

The woman placed an oxygen mask over the young fireman's nose and mouth and then hit the panic button.

* * *

Several anxious, agonizing minutes—and another hypo—later, the assembled hospital team finally had their trauma patient breathing comfortably on his own—yet once more.

The doctors and nurses gradually began filing from the room.

Chet did not hear them leave. He was too heavily sedated.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Fourteen**

Chet Kelly felt his upper arm being squeezed—uncomfortably hard. He raised his heavy eyelids and blinked. His brain seemed to be stuffed with cotton balls and his 'striking' view of the hospital room's ceiling was all blurry. He blinked a few more times and the fuzzy world around him gradually became clearer.

Ms. Banner was in the process of taking her patient's blood pressure. When the nurse saw Mr. Kelly open his eyes, she stopped what she was doing and snatched up the loaded hypo that was resting on the tray beside her.

A familiar face reappeared within Chet's exceedingly limited field of vision—along with a hand and a hypodermic syringe.

The nurse's eyes narrowed into menacing slits and she pointed the long-needled tip of her fully loaded hypo right in the fireman's mustached face. "Make one wrong move," she warned, "and I will be forced to _shoot_ you!"

The corners of Kelly's mouth turned up. He couldn't help but smile.

The woman grinned and lowered her weapon. "So-o…Marcie tells me you _know_ your 'restrained' roommate over there."

Now, there was an understatement! "We've only been working together for the past seven years!" Chet suddenly recalled that there were two _other_ firefighters in the room. "Who else is in here?"

"The other two firemen work with him—er, you, too. Besides Mr. Gage, we have a Mr. Stoker…and a Mr. Lopez." Noting the steady increase in Mr. Kelly's anxiety level, Gwen raised and re-aimed her loaded weapon.

Kelly recalled the pretty nurse's warning—er, promise and remained incredibly calm—well, at least on the outside. Chet also seemed to remember something about his friends being 'exposed to a toxic substance'. The firefighter fought desperately to maintain a calm demeanor. "They gonna be okay?" he inquired, his voice betraying him with a slight quiver.

Ms. Banner clasped the concerned young man's hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "We'll know soon…"

Mike Morton stepped into the room. The young man glanced around and frowned. "Whose idea was _this_?" he suddenly demanded, sounding every bit as displeased as he looked.

Ms. Banner winced and turned in the unhappy young doctor's direction. "Their Captain wanted us to keep them all together," the nurse nervously explained. "He said that it would be good for their morale."

"Oh _he_ _did_, did he," Morton came back, sounding completely unimpressed.

"Yes…_He_ _did_," Gwen parroted. "Dr. Brackett agreed. And this was the only four-bed ward available."

The young man heard his boss' name mentioned and suddenly seemed impressed.

Speaking of his boss…

Dr. Brackett, Dr. Hendelson, Miss McCall and two more nurses entered the ward.

Kel spotted Morton. "Mike, you wanna give us a hand. It's been over five hours since they've been symptomatic. We're going to discontinue the heat treatments and see what happens." He stepped up to Marco Lopez's bed, examined its occupant's medical chart for a few moments, and then began un-piling the thermal blankets from the patient's peacefully sleeping form.

A nurse started removing the restraints from his wrists.

The sweat-drenched fireman was soon freed—of both the blankets and the straps.

Morton had liberated Mike Stoker from his thermal coverings, and Hendelson had done the same for John Gage.

Dixie, and her team of nurses, began swapping sweat-soaked hospital gowns and bed linens for clean, fresh, DRY ones.

The doctors had been shoo'ed out of their way. The three men stood in the center of the ward and watched while the three women worked.

"What if the toxin wasn't _entirely_ destroyed by the heat treatments?" Morton speculated. "What if the symptoms recur whenever their body temperatures decrease?"

"You mean, something along the lines of an LSD flashback?" Hendelson wondered.

Mike nodded.

The three physicians exchanged somber glances.

"That's a risk we're just gonna hafta take," Brackett determined. "And I think they would agree. After all, they can't go around wrapped in thermal blankets for the rest of their li—"

"—Mike?" a woman's distraught voice suddenly interrupted. Karen Stoker had barged into the hospital room and up to her husband's bed, which was the first one on the right, just as you came through doorway. She latched onto the motionless man's limp left hand and called out to him again. "Mike!" When her spouse failed to respond, she aimed her alarmed gaze at the three doctors. "What's going on? Why isn't he awake yet?"

Hendelson took it upon himself to answer the concerned young lady's questions. "For the past twelve hours, these men have been run—repeatedly—through the ringer. The toxin put a _tremendous_ amount of strain on their cardiovascular systems. The workload their hearts had to handle was nothing short of _phenomenal_! These guys gotta feel like they've just run back-to-back Boston Marathons. The three of them are suffering from _complete_ physical exhaustion. They'll wake up...when their bodies are ready to."

Karen's attention returned to her husband. She now felt 'somewhat' reassured.

Apparently, one of the bodies had deemed itself ready…already.

John Gage's eyes suddenly fluttered open. He aimed them up at the person who was taking his vital signs. "Shee-eesh!" the shivering man croaked—er, complained, in a voice just above a whisper. "The price the hospital charges…for these beds…you'd think THEY could…at least…give a guy…a blanket!" Gage shivered again and shut his eyes. He wanted to draw his arms up tightly to his chest and roll himself up into a nice, warm ball, but those four big—invisible—guys were back. They weren't sitting on his chest anymore. No. Now, they appeared—or, didn't appear—to be holding his arms and legs down. He could hear a lot a' commotion going on around him and reopened his eyes, to investigate what was causing it. Judging by the group of doctor's and nurses that had gathered around his bed—it was _he, himself_!

Dr. Brackett smiled down at him. "Johnny, how do you feel?"

"C-C-Co-old," Johnny told him, truthfully. He was so cold, he had to clench his teeth, to keep them from chattering.

Dixie covered the complaining patient with a nice, warm blanket. "How's that?" she wondered, once she got him all tucked in.

"B-B-Better…Thanks, D-D-Dix'." The fireman suddenly forgot all about being cold. "How are Mike and Marco?" he anxiously inquired, and attempted to rise. He couldn't seem to move. Either he was as weak as a baby, or those four big invisible guys were awfully powerful.

Being a firm believer in the adage 'A picture is worth a thousand words', Miss McCall pressed the UP button on the side rail and proceeded to raise the head of the worried young fireman's hospital bed. "See for yourself," she invited with a wry smile and a wave of her arm.

The people standing around him all stepped to one side and two other hospital beds came into view. In them were two peacefully sleeping bodies.

John saw Stoker's wife standing beside one of the beds and knew which one each friend occupied. "Hi, Karen."

Mike's young bride greeted him back. "Hi, Johnny."

Gage's slight smile suddenly vanished. "What about Chet?"

The group of people that were standing at the right side of his hospital bed parted and Chet Kelly's mustached face appeared.

John saw that his friend's eyes were open and aimed in his direction. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'm _just dandy_," Kelly sarcastically came back. "In fact, I was gonna check out a' here this morning. But then I decided I'd stick around…just to keep _you guys_ company."

His paramedic friend suppressed a slightly crooked smile and rolled his tired eyes. "Hey…What's goin' on?" he suddenly wondered, as his blood pressure was taken for the third time in as many minutes. He glanced across the room and saw that Mike and Marco's vital signs were being continuously monitored, too.

The three doctors ended the huddled conference they'd been holding in the middle of the ward and stepped back up to his bedside.

"How do you feel?" Kel inquired once more. "Do you have a headache? Or any _other_ complaints?"

"No-o. I'm not hurting...anywhere," the patient wearily replied. "I'm just really _really_ tired. I don't seem to have _any_ energy. What's goin' on, Doc?"

'So far, so good…' "_We_ are going to leave now," the physician informed him. "_You_ are going to sleep. We will be more than happy to answer any, and all, of your questions—_when you wake up_!"

Two of the three physicians in the room began to file out.

Dixie injected something into their really _really _tired patient's IV port.

John suddenly felt even more tired. His drooping eyes roved around the ward, moving from one of his roommates…to another. "This should be…interesting."

Mike Morton caught the paramedic's quiet comment. "If it gets TOO 'interesting' around here," he warned, "we're going to have to split you guys up! Understood?"

Gage and Kelly glanced innocently at one another. Then they turned back to the young doctor and nodded.

The physician wasn't fooled by their 'apparent' innocence. He gave them each an icy no-nonsense glare and then left the room.

John stared after him, looking both sleepy and thoughtful. "I wonder what he considers TOO 'interesting'…"

Miss McCall saw Chet Kelly nodding thoughtfully, as well. "I have no-o idea," she nervously replied. "But I have a feeling we're going to be finding out. Are-en't we…"

The two firemen glanced at each other again, this time looking somewhat mischievous.

The sedated one suddenly exhaled a couple of weary sighs and closed his eyes. He fell asleep with a sly smile on his face.

Dixie exhaled a weary sigh of her own. "Yup!"

* * *

Roy DeSoto entered the ward and exchanged smiles and nods with the three nurses who were continuously monitoring his shift-mates' vital signs.

He stepped up to his best buddy's bedside and then just stood there, staring silently down at him.

Suddenly, Roy smiled. He couldn't help but smile. After all that gasping, it was truly joyous to finally see his friend breathing so easily. The paramedic glanced up at the heart monitor and his smile broadened into a grin. Sinus rhythm had never looked so beautiful before!

"Thanks…for waitin' around," Roy told his peacefully sleeping partner. He gave Johnny's unrestrained wrist a reassuring squeeze…and then left.

* * *

Less than a minute later, Hank Stanley poked his head into the room.

The Captain had just had a long talk with the doctors. He was tremendously relieved to hear that his men were doing fine. He was equally relieved to find the four of them resting comfortably. He could leave the hospital now. Now, he wouldn't have to worry…quite so much.

The four of them were together. They'd watch out for each other.

**TBC**

Author's note: I just want to say 'Thanks!' to all the readers who have stuck with this fic…so far.

I say that because, if you intend to see it through to the end—you still have quite a few more words to read. :P

Believe it, or not, there are still a few more introductory chapters, before the real story—and all the fun—begins! :D

When I first started writing this, I had no intentions of having the introduction drag on for so looooooooooooooong.

But the E! characters obviously had their _own_ agenda. :D

*snicker...snicker* *snort*

;) Ross7


	15. Chapter 15

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Fifteen**

True to his word, when Gage woke the following morning, Dr. Brackett was there, along with his young colleague, to answer any—and all—of his questions.

"What's goin' on, Doc?" the still slightly groggy paramedic re-pondered.

"Johnny, I'd like to re-introduce you to Dr. James Hendelson," Brackett motioned to the young man standing at his side. "Dr. Hendelson is responsible for saving your life. I'm sure that he will be glad to explain 'what's goin' on'…"

Gage gave the young doctor a look of undying gratitude.

The physician flashed him back a 'you're welcome' smile and promptly proceeded to fill the fireman in on everything that had transpired in the past 32 anxious hours.

* * *

Several informative minutes later, Hendelson finished his explanation and opened a small black notebook. "Now, it's my turn to ask a question. How do you feel? Do you have a headache…or any other aches and pains?"

John was lost in thought. He suddenly noticed it was quiet and aimed his no longer blank gaze in Hendelson's direction. "Huh?…Uhhh…No. No. I'm just still awfully tired. I still don't seem to have any energy—at all. I can't even lift my arms and legs off the bed…" His gaze went back to being blank. "We should've tried harder to get that night watchman to come in," he bitterly determined. "If we had, he might still be alive…" he sadly added.

Kel looked extremely skeptical. "I doubt seriously if you could've ever convinced him to come in. The autopsy revealed he had an abnormally high blood-alcohol level. It was probably his bottle the workman used to brain Chet. He'd obviously been drinking on the job and was probably afraid of being fired if anyone found out. You can't blame yourself for his death, Johnny. Even if you guys had gotten him here, I don't think he would have let us examine him—not in his condition."

Gage gave Brackett a grateful glance. "I gue-ess…" He turned back to stare up at the ceiling. "So…three people are dead…all because of this toxic junk I can't even pronounce."

"DMCST," Hendelson told him. "I can't pronounce it, either."

John managed a bitter smile.

"A-And three firemen are still alive," Brackett reminded his sad young friend. "Instead of dwelling on the fatalities, maybe we should just be grateful for that…"

"You're right, Kel," Hendelson solemnly agreed. "We should be very grateful for that. Until now, exposure to DMCST was one hundred percent fatal. This time, we have a fifty-percent survival rate and, who knows? With what we've learned here in the past 32 hours, perhaps no one will ever have to die from this particular toxin again."

Gage gave both of his doctors a grateful smile.

* * *

The doctors had no sooner departed, when an orderly brought Mr. Gage a breakfast tray.

John declined to accept it. The fatigued—famished—fireman just didn't have the energy to eat.

* * *

Ten minutes later, J.T. and his paramedic partner, Don Lorey tapped on the open door to their station-mates' room and then came strolling in.

"Well, well, well…" Lorey said, as he took in the scene. "Looks sort a' like the dorm—back at the Station. Don't it…"

J.T. nodded. "What a sorry lookin' bunch," he teased.

Gage pretended to be highly insulted, but then broke into a broad grin. "What are you two paramedical school dropouts doin' up here?"

Lorey winked and rested a hand on their colleague's wrist. "We're supposed to be giving Dixie a message," he replied—er, lied, in a hushed tone. "But that's just an excuse we came up with so we could come up and see how you guys are doin'. THEY have this room as OFF LIMITS to visitors. So, for the record, we're _messengers_."

John looked highly amused.

Miss McCall came into the room just then, with two other nurses in tow. Judging by the fresh linens in their arms, her followers were there to change the bedding.

Suddenly, the HT in Lorey's left hand began 'bleeping'. The sound of muffled tones closely followed. He and his partner tensed up and listened.

Unfortunately, they weren't the only firefighters who heard the alarm.

John tensed, too. He attempted to rise up from his bed, but failed.

Chet stiffened and then lay there, grimacing in agony from the pain produced by his sudden movement.

Mike and Marco flipped their blankets off. The pair then bailed out of their hospital beds and collapsed into two crumpled heaps on the floor.

There was a blur of activity in the room, as linens were dropped and patients were picked up.

Stoker and Lopez were returned to their beds and quickly recovered. The two men lay there, looking like they were in a state of shock. They were! They were both shocked by what had just happened and completely confused by their strange surroundings.

J.T. gave Dixie an apologetic look. "Can you manage now without us?" he inquired and held up their HT.

Dixie completed her preliminary check of her patients and was relieved to discover that—amazingly enough—none of their IVs had been compromised. She nodded. "When you get downstairs, send a doctor up, will you?"

They nodded.

"Oh…and, guys?" Dixie called after the departing paramedics.

The two men halted and glanced back over their shoulders at her.

"The next time you come up to 'give me a message', try to remember to leave your radio in the Squad. Okay?"

The pair flashed the feisty nurse a couple of guilty grins and gave her another two nods of assurance.

Dixie suppressed a slight smile and then started reattaching electrodes to her still stunned patients' chests.

Mike finally overcame his initial shock. "How on earth...did we get _here_?"

"In an ambulance," John smartly replied. "Hey, Mike! Marco! It's about time you two woke up."

Marco glanced around the ward in amazement. "I have an even better question. _What_ are we doing _here_? What's goin' on, John?"

"Well. It's a long story…and quite incredible, actually." Gage turned to Kelly. "Wouldn't you say it's an incredible story?"

Chet's hastily injected hypo was beginning to have its pain-killing effect on him. He unclenched his gritted teeth and nodded. "Quite."

Dixie rolled her eyes. "You guys were exposed to an extremely toxic substance and for the past—" she paused to glance at her watch, "—33 hours, you've been experiencing a severe toxic reaction, which nearly killed you. But now it's all over—hopefully—and your conditions are stable." She smiled reassuringly down at her still astonished patients.

Mike and Marco exchanged thoughtful glances.

"He wasn't drunk," Lopez realized, aloud. Then he turned to Gage. "That wasn't such a long story."

"Yeah," John was forced to admit. "But she only gave you the Reader's Digest Condensed version."

Stoker stared anxiously up at their nurse. "Has someone called my wife?"

Miss McCall smiled warmly down at him. "Karen's been here the entire time. We finally got her to lie down for awhile. She should be back up in just a bit."

Mike looked tremendously relieved and finally allowed himself to relax…a bit.

All four firemen relaxed a bit.

* * *

When the summoned physician finally arrived, Kel found his patients sleeping…peacefully.

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

Here—at long last—is where "A Work In Progress" _really_ begins ;)

**Chapter Sixteen**

The three still completely-exhausted men slept away the better part of two days.

* * *

It was now the fourth day of the four firemen's hospital stay.

John Gage was sitting up in his hospital bed, sorting through his mail.

(His thoughtful partner had swung by his apartment, picked it up and delivered it to him during his most recent visit, which had just ended.)

When the paramedic got to his latest issue of Popular Mechanics, he stopped sorting and started paging through the periodical. He flipped through a few more of its pages and then froze. "Humph!" he grunted. "Imagine that!"

His three roommates heard both of his quiet comments and turned their gazes in the mail sorter's direction. They saw Gage staring down at his magazine in amazement and their curiosity was piqued.

John was too busy reading to notice their questioning stares.

So Marco finally came right out and asked, "Imagine _what_?"

Gage glanced up from his magazine. "Ah, there's an article in here all about fires and toxic fumes," he replied and then returned to his reading.

"Oh yeah?" Stoker looked even more curious, and quickly set his National Geographic aside. "What's it say?"

The interrupted reader glanced up again.

His friends were all staring at him, waiting expectantly for a reply to Mike's inquiry.

"How should I know?" John asked right back. "I haven't read it yet."

Mike looked annoyed. "Well, what'd yah say 'Imagine that!' for then?"

Gage shrugged. "I dunno. I guess I just thought it was kind a' interesting that I should open my Popular Mechanics and find an article all about fires and toxic fumes—I mean, after what just happened to—"

"—Never mind," Marco interrupted. "Just go ahead and read it."

John shot him an irritated glare. "I'm tryin' to. Believe me, I'm tryin' to." He gave his head a quick shake and then went back to reading the article.

Lopez exhaled an exasperated gasp. "Out loud, John. _Out loud_!"

The reader slowly raised his gaze from his magazine. "Out lou-oud?"

"Sure!" Kelly, who was now allowed to sit up a little, came back. "We wanna hear what THEY have to say about what happened to US."

Gage saw their grins and nods, and suddenly felt a bit uneasy. "You sure?"

He got a trio of impatient glares and just as many more nods.

"O-ka-ay." John's gaze returned to his magazine. He inhaled a deep breath, exhaled a long sigh...and then began reading—aloud. "The Home Inferno—Now It's Deadlier Than Ever.

New materials emitting toxic fumes, plus phenomena like cold fires and flashovers, make any fire in your home a serious threat to life. By Ed Fales.

The idea of fire breaking out in your home has never been a pleasant one. Unfortunately, the evidence mounting up now, in reports from fire investigators, insurance companies and municipal officials, points to an entirely new syndrome of fire in the home.

In brief, these fires, which can cause death in a number of ways, are deadlier than ever." He glanced up to see if the guys were still paying attention.

They were.

So he went back to reading. "From these reports, the consensus describes the new fire syndrome as a new pattern of toxic or combustible gases being generated, sometimes leading to an explosive inferno from which there can be no escape.

Day after day, newspapers are reporting: 'House explodes as firemen arrive.' 'Seven die. Puzzled firemen find family dead but no one was burned.'

Fires weren't always like this. You'd smell wood smoke. (Now there may be no wood, no smell at first.) You'd hear the crackle of flames. (Now there may be silence—right up until the booming phenomenon known as 'flashover'.) And before, there would be time to phone firemen, or use a garden hose or fire extinguisher. (Now, says the National Fire Protection Association, you're lucky if you have 20 seconds in which to act.)

The trouble is: We fill our homes today with plastics and flammables and fluids, some of which are toxic, others explosive.

Experts say some plastics burn in weird new ways, much hotter and faster, emitting deadly fumes that if inhaled, can alter the senses and kill by asphyxiation. Two breaths of some of these fumes and you're in serious trouble, firemen say.

Homes Can Seal In Fumes: To make matters worse, many homes now are almost virtually sealed—for heating and cooling efficiency. Fumes can't escape.

Meanwhile, we keep filling them with wonderful new devices and decorations not realizing that we're virtually priming a bomb—" Gage grinned and glanced up. "Get a load a' this," he told his listeners. "Today's firemen are _magnificent_," he read and then looked up again.

The four 'magnificent' firemen exchanged broad grins.

Stoker hoisted his Styrofoam cup of ice water. "I'll drink to that!" he declared and took a long draw on his straw.

"Where was I?" John mumbled. His eyes searched the article. "Ahhh. Yes. Today's firemen are _magnificent_," he re-read. "They—meaning us—arrive in seconds and readily risk their lives. But more often, houses and apartments are infernos even before firemen get there. And even if firemen can still get in, they can't see. 'Smoke is often oily and thick!' they say, quote: We just have to pass our hands over the beds and 'feel' for people.' endquote.

Officials didn't begin to piece together what was happening until one day in Washington, D.C., three years ago.

At 10:30 a.m. firemen received an alarm. It came from building 213 at the U.S. Navy Yard, where a common office copying machine had overheated and caught fire.

It wasn't much of a fire. Firemen didn't even use masks. They doused the machine and had the fire out in a jiffy. Within 20 minutes they were on their way back to the station.

Then began a strange series of events—" his cheery demeanor suddenly crumbled. "Back at the firehouse, firemen began falling ill. Some described it as a tightness in the chest," he swallowed hard. "Others had splitting headaches—" he glanced up at Mike and Marco.

The three of them exchanged extremely solemn glances.

John's somber gaze returned to the article. "—dizziness, vomiting. Next day, an engine driver fainted." Gage glanced up at their engineer again and hesitated. He really didn't want to read any further—least ways, not aloud.

"A-And?" Mike urged, sounding on the edge of his seat—er, hospital bed.

The reader exhaled a resigned sigh and reluctantly continued. "Then he came to, said he felt fine—" the paramedic winced, "—and dropped dead."

Gage, Kelly and Lopez immediately riveted their eyes upon Stoker. The three were anxious to witness the engineer's reaction to _that_ disturbing bit of news.

Mike was looking a little pale and he was feeling somewhat queasy.

John gave him a sympathetic glance and went back to his reading. "Shocked two Washington physicians—" he stopped suddenly. "Sorry. I didn't see the comma. Shocked, two Washington physicians, Drs. Robert Dyer and Victor Esch, began a long, careful investigation.

The finger pointed not at CO (carbon monoxide), the old familiar cause of fire death, but at a gas which develops whenever polyvinyl chloride (PVC), a common household plastic, burns. The gas was hydrogen chloride (HCl), a real killer.

Before long the inquiry had also turned up other poisons: chlorine, phosgene, nitrogen dioxide, sulfur dioxide, and ammonia.

As a service to doctors and firemen, the Journal of the American Medical Association has decided to devote eight pages to fire dangers, including a five-page report from Drs. Dyer and Esch.

'Practically every structure today contains plastics capable of producing lung-damaging gases,' the physicians warned, 'The firefighter faces a great, new risk." He stopped reading again. 'Man! No one knows that better than us.' He let out a long, exhausted sigh and stared down at the article, looking bored. "So? What else is new?" he insincerely inquired. He flipped the magazine shut and tossed it onto his bed's meds' stand.

His associates exchanged disappointed glances.

"That's it?" Marco exclaimed. "That's all it says?"

"No-o," the reader's eyes closed involuntarily and he pressed the button that lowered his bed. "That's not all it says, but that's all I'm gonna read. That article is six or seven pages long and my eyes are too tired."

"Well, mine aren't," Lopez determined. "Toss it here!"

Gage stopped lowering his bed, forced his weary eyes back open, grabbed his magazine and whipped it across the room.

It landed with a loud 'smack'…on the floor at the foot of Marco's bed.

Chet heard it hit the floor and turned to the guy in the bed beside his. "Oh. Nice throw," he commended, his words filled with sarcasm.

"Great!" Lopez declared, his voice oozing sarcasm, as well. "_Now_ how am I supposed to get it?" he pouted.

Kelly _couldn't_ leave his hospital bed, and the three of them were not _allowed_ to leave theirs—un-assisted.

"You'll just hafta do what I hafta to do," Chet glumly reasoned. "Ask a nurse to get it for you."

Marco didn't particularly care for Kelly's suggestion. He didn't want to bother the nurses for such a ridiculous reason. Besides, they were probably busy. He turned to Stoker and saw him staring blankly off into space. "Hey, Mike? Can you toss me one of your National Geographics?"

The engineer didn't hear the request. He was too lost in his thoughts.

"Mike!"

Stoker snapped back to reality and turned in the shouted voice's direction. "Did you say something?"

Marco rolled his eyes. "Man! Where have you been?"

"I, uh…was just thinking…about that article. That engineer died three years ago. That's about the same time the Department came out with the new regulations on SCBAs. Remember? Prior to then, it wasn't _mandatory_ to have our tanks and masks in place _before_ entering a structure fire. Yah know, according to Dr. Hendelson, there are dozens of other deadly toxins—besides DMCST—that we could be exposed to now-a-days. And, with modern technology coming up with more and more new chemicals all the time…this job is becoming more and more **hazardous**—_every day_!"

John heard the degree of alarm in Mike's voice. He forced his concerned eyes open and aimed them in the engineer's direction. "This job has **always** been a high risk occupation," he reminded his deeply troubled friend. "It's not a whole lot riskier now than it was a few days ago. It just seems that way, because that little 'incident' at the refinery fire brought it to our attention. Sure, toxic gases are a definite threat, but we could buy it anytime. Any fire could be our last. Fires are a lot like women—totally unpredictable! And, that makes fighting them…extremely hazardous…" his eyes began to droop and his words began to trail off. "Not to mention… challenging..."

Kelly couldn't help but grin. "Ga-age, everything you know about women—and fires—could be put on the same dot of micro-film with room left over for all 27 volumes of The Encyclopedia Britannica and both the Old and New Testaments."

Marco snickered.

If 'Ga-age' could have opened his eyes, he would have given Chet a look of feigned insult. As it was, he merely smiled.

Stoker stared at the smirking man in amazement. "So-o then you honestly don't think it was _safer_ to be a firemen in the _past_?"

John stifled a yawn. "I don't think it was SAFE to be a **fireman** at ANY time. Each period of fire fighting history must've had it's own special hazards. Toxic gases just happen to be ours…" his words trailed off once more. He rolled onto his right side and curled himself up into a warm, cozy ball. Then he exhaled a long, relaxed sigh and did his level best to present the appearance of someone who did not wish to be disturbed…any further. 'Man! This bed...sure is...hard! I've slept…on softer…ground…' With that discomforting thought, the overly fatigued fireman _finally_ succeeded in drifting off.

Seeing that John had just dropped off to sleep—and out of the discussion—Mike's attention turned his 'tractioned' colleague. "What do you think, Chet?"

"Huh? Oh. I dunno. I can sort a' see both a' your points. But I'm hopin' Gage is right. Because, if this job IS getting more _hazardous _everyday, what will it be like in just one or two more years? Man! I don't even wanna think about it!" he hinted and closed his eyes. Chet had no use for scientists—or the deadly chemicals they kept concocting. THEY—and their stupid DMCST—were responsible for putting him in his even stupider hospital bed. He managed a bitter smile, as he suddenly realized something else. Scientists were also responsible for saving his three friends' lives. His roommates served as a reminder that not _all_ scientists were either mad—or bad. Some, like Dr. James Hendelson, actually devoted their lives to trying to _save_ others.

Stoker took the hint and turned to Lopez. "What about you?"

Marco stared back at him in confusion for a few moments and when he finally did reply, his comment was completely irrelevant to the topic at hand. "I just wanted you to toss me one of your National Geographics is all..."

Mike looked tremendously disappointed and flung one of his periodicals at his un-opinionated pal.

Marco caught the magazine in self-defense. "Thanks." He flipped through its pages and found some interesting photos from some British museum, showing the various suits of armor that knights had once worn into battle. There were even pictures of elaborately costumed people at some 'Renaissance Faire', where women—dressed as fair damsels—watched while men—dressed as knights and mounted on horseback—painstakingly re-enacted some kind a' 'jousting' tournament. As he stared at the article, the words began to blur and his eyelids began to droop.

Stoker couldn't get to sleep. His mind seemed to be stuck on toxic gases. The thought of inhaling deadly toxins into his lungs didn't exactly lend itself to relaxation.

He exhaled a frustrated gasp and decided to finish the article he'd started reading earlier. It was a rather boring piece—perfect for putting someone to sleep. It was all about the restoration of damages done to ancient landmarks, by both malicious vandals and souvenir seeking tourists.

He re-opened his National Geographic and stared down at a photo of a modern sculptor attempting to restore the face of a priceless nude statue that someone had taken a sledgehammer to. Another picture showed masonries trying to patch the Coliseum, in Rome. Tourists have been chipping away at its walls for centuries, taking chunks of the ancient ruins home with them, in place of postcards.

Stoker gazed down at the enormous stone structure, looking thoughtful. 'It must've been a breeze to be a fireman in a city where the buildings were all made of concrete and stone,' he reasoned. 'After all, rocks don't burn.' It took a few more paragraphs, but the words finally began to blur and Mike's eyes finally started to close.

**TBC**

Author's note: Okay, everybody better buckle-up, because we are about to embark on a wild and bumpy—and hopefully enjoyable—trip through time and space.

Departure gate for our journ-E! is: **Chapter Seventeen**. :D

Departure time is: Just as soon as I can get it typed up onto the Microsoft Word program on my Dell computer. :P

Additional note: The Popular Mechanics' article that Johnny is reading—aloud—is actually a **real** Popular Mechanics' article that I found in my own personal issue of the magazine, sometime back in the late-seventies. Reading that article, is what first prompted me to write 'A Work In Progress'. I am extremely grateful to Mr. Ed Fales for his _inspiring_ article. :D

:) Ross7


	17. Chapter 17

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Seventeen**

Mike Stoker stood in a dank, dimly lit room staring—rather dazedly—at his _strange_ surroundings.

Torches burned in metal brackets that were mounted high on the cold room's concrete walls. Their flickering light barely illuminated the large, open space. The stench from their oily smoke filled both the air and his nostrils.

His upper body felt weighed down, and his lower body felt a bit drafty.

His right hand was grasping a tall, slender, wooden pole. He passed the pole into his left hand and started reaching for his head. He seemed to be wearing a rather weighty metal helmet of some sort. He supported the heavy headgear, to prevent his neck from snapping forward too quickly, and then took a look down. His already gaping jaws opened even further, as his dazed eyes discovered the cause for his legs' mild discomfort. They were both bare! The doubly stunned engineer heard a scraping sound, and immediately spun around.

Station 51's entire A-shift crew was standing there!

Wherever 'there' was.

He and four of his associates all seemed to be wearing the same ridiculous—and rather elaborate—looking costume.

Their bronze helmets, topped with royal blue plumes, had hinged cheek-plates that made them sort a' look like they were wearing metal sideburns.

Their bodies were _barely_ covered with white smocks, made of finely woven linen. The narrow, bronze-stripped leather belts, fastened snugly about each of their waists, made their garments 'appear' two-pieced. The short, flared sleeves of their 'blouses' protruded from their armored shoulders, and their ruffled 'skirts' rode just above their bony knees.

Their backs and chests were also protected with thin, waist-length, plates of bronze, which buckled together at their sides. The breastplates of their armor were both highly polished and ornately engraved.

Frontlet bands, consisting of six silver-plated strips of metal, hung just below their belts. So that even their 'family jewels' were protected!

The scabbards of three-foot-long swords were strapped to their right sides, and the sheaths of ten-inch-long daggers were strapped to their left sides.

Their forearms were encased in protective leather sheathing.

Long, flowing, floor-length cloaks clung to each of their backs. The thin tunics were fastened to the tops of their bronze shoulder pads by silver chains and buttons.

They were all wearing open-toed leather sandals. The sandals were secured to their feet by long laces that crisscrossed up their legs and then tied at their knees.

Both the wool of their tunics and the leather of their wrist sheaths and sandals had been dyed a royal blue, to match the plumes on their helmets.

The long wooden poles they were carrying turned out to be spear-tipped lances!

His fifth friend's costume differed somewhat from the rest.

The Captain's helmet's plume, tunic and sandals were all dyed a bright, yellow gold and each piece of his bronze armor had been plated with silver. His belt was a bit broader and even more ornately decorated and his cloak hung from only one of his armored shoulders—his left. Each of his boss' forearms, and both of his shins, were also shielded with silver, and in his right hand, in place of a lance, there was a three-foot-long wooden staff of some sort.

All six—completely flabbergasted—firemen stood there in stunned silence for quite a long, quiet while.

"Must've been some party," Hank Stanley finally stated, being the first to find his voice. "It's a shame I don't remember any of it…"

It had to have been some party and they all had to have had waaaaay too much to drink. They _had _to have been drunk at the time, because none of them would have ever donned these wild get-ups while they were sober!

On the other hand, they couldn't've been drunk at the time.

The Captain knew himself and he knew his crew, too. And what he knew was, that they all drank _responsibly_.

A knot formed in Stanley's stomach and his confusion was suddenly quadrupled.

Perhaps he'd received a blow to the head and was suffering from temporary amnesia? "Do any of _you guys_ happen to remember _how_ we got here?" the Captain questioned his responsible companions.

The _guys_ glanced at each other—again, and then turned back to their leader, looking equally at a loss.

Hank's brow furrowed and that knot suddenly tightened.

"I got an even better question, Cap…" one of his paramedics finally piped up. "Where **is** here? An' what are we doin' in these _ridiculous_ get-ups?"

"That was _two_ questions, Gage," Kelly quickly corrected. "Sheesh! Can't you even count past _one_?"

Gage gave his smart aleck shift-mate an annoyed glare and then turned back to his Captain, hoping—er, praying that he would hear a _reasonable_ explanation.

"I don't know, John…" Hank regrettably replied. "But I intend to find out."

There were six tall, curved, ornately-decorated shields resting against a long, wooden, bench-banked table, in the center of the room.

Stanley tossed his staff onto it. He slid his heavy helmet off, placed it down on the table, too and then started heading for the doorway. "C'mon, guys! Let's go find out what's goin' on."

The guys emptied their hands, ditched their weighty headgear, and quickly followed their Captain from the room.

* * *

The crew of 51 continued to follow along as their Captain led them down a long, torch-lit, concrete corridor and a treacherously steep, twisting flight of concrete stairs.

At the bottom of the steps was an enormous, high-ceilinged entry hall filled with ancient pieces of military armament. Assorted swords, spears, shields and lances were bracketed to its concrete walls, along with dozens of large bronze plaques that had been engraved with profile portraits of extremely solemn-looking soldiers.

Stanley and his men stood in the center of the hall and stared wonderingly around at all the ancient relics.

"We must be in some kind of a museum," Marco reasoned.

The men nodded thoughtfully.

Now that they had some idea of _where_ they were, they could concentrate on _how_ they got there.

The firemen jerked, startled by the sudden opening of an enormous door.

A young man, dressed equally as weird as they were (_Dress_ed being the operative word, as he was wearing an off-white, sleeveless, floor-length _gown_, woven of silk and bordered with bands of purple.) appeared in the open doorway. An elegant lavender cloak, also of floor-length, draped from his left shoulder. The guy was sporting a shiny gold headband and carrying a short wooden staff, similar to one the Captain had recently discovered in his hands.

The stranger entered the hall and stepped right up to Stanley. He struck his clenched right fist against his breast and then extended his right arm.

The guy just continued to stand there like that, obviously waiting for something to happen.

It eventually dawned on the young man that the officer had no intentions of returning his greeting. The fellow frowned and lowered his tiring limb. "Quaestor Ceasaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secondus to see Prefect Augustus Lidicus," he announced, sounding almost as aloof as he now looked.

Hank exchanged knowing glances with his crew, and a slight smile played upon his previously pursed-in-thought lips. "I'll bet…" he replied, his voice filled with sarcasm. "Look. If this is some kind of elaborate joke, we don't happen to find it funny. Now, _where_ are we? Who are you _really_? And what the heck's goin' on around here? What's with these _ridiculous_ get-ups?" he further demanded and motioned to their odd attire.

Their young visitor ignored all of his questions but one. He seemed to have found the officer's second question highly insulting. "I am who I claim to be!" he stated firmly. His icy, blue eyes suddenly narrowed into shrewd slits. "I see by your rank that you are a Centurion. I have been formerly introduced to _all_ of the Centurions. Why is it, that I do **not** recognize **you**?"

Stanley exhaled an annoyed gasp. "Okay, pal. If you wanna go on with the gag—fine! But we're not gonna stick around here and play with you! We're getting out of here…wherever the heck 'here' is…" he added beneath his breath and began heading for the exit.

The stranger latched onto the departing officer's arm and pulled him to a stop. "Centurion, perhaps we should start all over again…" he suggested.

"All right!" the officer declared, sounding as delighted as he now appeared. He spun back around and extended his right hand, palm slightly up and open. "Captain Hank Stanley. LA County Fire Department…"

The young man stared down at the officer's proffered appendage in complete confusion. "What are these strange words that you speak?"

Seeing that the guy made no move to shake hands with him, the Captain dropped his arm and gasped—again. "I thought you meant you were gonna drop the gag!" he griped and turned to leave—again.

"Wait!" the young man urged and placed a hand upon the officer's armored shoulder.

But Stanley, whose patience had just been spent, brushed the guy's hand off and went striding out of the building.

When the others tried to follow him, the stranger stepped in front of the sunlit doorway and then stood there, blocking their path.

"Who **are** you men?" he cautiously inquired.

"Who do you _think_ we are?" Kelly wondered right back.

"Imposters!" the young man determined. "Enemy spies! Here to infiltrate the Roman Army!"

The 'enemy spies' glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.

"What is this place, anyways?" Roy asked, anxious to change the subject. "An old movie set…left over from Ben Hur?"

"We are standing in one of the main barracks of the Praetorian Guard," the stranger informed them.

"Okay. We'll buy that," DeSoto decided. "Are we on the back-lot of some Hollywood movie studio?"

"We are on Palatine Hill."

"I've never heard of Palatine Hill," Marco confessed. "Is it anywhere near Beverly Hills?"

The stranger was stunned. "Surely, you men must have heard of Palatine Hill! It is one of the Seven Hills of Rome!"

"Ro-ome?" Roy numbly repeated. "As in Rome, _Italy_?"

"Rome—as in _Capital of the Republic_!"

"That does it!" Stoker suddenly declared, looking and sounding completely disgusted. "Cap's right! We ain't gonna get any straight answers outta this guy." Immediately upon making that determination, the engineer brushed by the body blocking the door and stepped out into the sunlight.

The rest of the guys pushed past the two-legged obstacle, too and followed their friend outside.

* * *

Lopez was the last one out the door. He stepped out of the building and promptly proceeded to bump into Kelly…who had bumped into Gage…who had bumped into DeSoto…who had bumped into Stoker…who had bumped into their statue-like leader.

Their Captain hadn't made it very far.

Stanley was standing, just outside the door, staring—in stunned silence—at the unbelievable vista that presented itself before them.

In place of the museum parking lot, or the movie studio back-lot, they'd been fully expecting to find, there appeared an enormous, ancient—yet new—looking city!

Marco gazed out at the unfamiliar, ancient architecture for a few moments and then dazedly pondered, "What **is** this place?"

His Captain closed his gaping mouth, swallowed hard and softly said, "I don't know…but it sure ain't no studio back-lot."

The guy with the fancy purple cloak had followed the officer and his men out into the barracks' redbrick courtyard. He scrutinized the strange men…as they scrutinized the strange city. "Centurion—or whoever you are—I cannot understand it…but I believe that you honestly do not know where you are."

Stanley shifted his completely bewildered gaze in the understanding stranger's direction. "Do _you_…know where we are?"

The young guy grinned and then waved an arm through the air. "Behold! The City of Rome! Capital of the Republic!" He motioned for them to turn around.

They did.

A palatial looking building had been built into the top of the hill, behind the barracks they'd just exited.

"The Emperor's Palace!" their guide pointed out. He motioned to their right, to a ridge with an even bigger building sitting on its peak, and proudly proclaimed, "Capitoline Hill and Jupiter's Temple!" He waved an arm to their left, to a series of similar monument and temple-topped ridges. "Rome is situated upon seven such hills." Finally, he motioned to the view below. "That river, down there, is the Tiber. It flows through the city, east to we—"

"—Hold it!" Hank suddenly requested. "Just. Hold. Everything!"

Their young guide held it.

"This can't be **real**!" the Captain quickly determined. "It **can't**! What 'time' is this?" he asked the stranger.

The firemen stared at the guy with the lavender cloak, almost dreading to hear his reply.

The young man glanced up at the position of the sun. "A little before noo—"

"—Not _that_ time, yah twit! I meant, what period in history is this?"

The stranger gave the officer a cold stare, which left no doubt that he did not appreciate being interrupted. "It is the 18th day, of the seventh lunar month—Julius, in the year 64 ad dominus," he obligingly replied, the tone of his voice matching the coolness of his stare.

Hank exhaled a huge sigh of relief and then grinned from ear to ear. "I was right! This **can't** be real! None of this is _really_ happening! Heck! **We** won't even be **born** yet for another _nineteen centuries_!"

The firemen glanced uncertainly at one another. Their Captain's logic seemed sound, all right.

DeSoto studied the ancient city that surrounded them. He tapped his fingers on the metal breastplate that covered his chest and stomped his sandals on the redbrick courtyard beneath his feet. Everything certainly 'looked' and 'felt' real enough. Roy finally formed his deeply troubled thoughts into words. "If we're not even **born** yet…how do we account for the _fact_ that we **are** here?"

His Captain's frown returned. "I don't know, Roy. I can't explain it…yet!" he quickly clarified.

Stoker stared out at the unbelievable view, looking completely lost. "What about our families, Cap? Will we ever see our wives and chil—?"

"—So-o, Cap," Kelly quickly cut in, hoping to change the touchy subject, "What's the plan?"

"Yeah, Cap," Marco joined in. "I'm getting hungry." Seeing his associates all staring back at him in disbelief, he defensively added, "We-ell…you heard the guy…it's nearly noon."

His friends gave him a 'group eye-roll'.

"What about our families, Cap?" Stoker repeated. The engineer was not easily deterred.

"I _hope_ we'll see them again, Mike. I surely do hope so..." his sad Captain repeated. "But, to be perfectly honest, right _now_? I just don't know…"

The guy with the lavender cloak continued to stare at the officer and his men in utter disbelief. "You not only do not know _where_ you are…you also seem to have no notion as to _how_ you came to be here. I am deeply puzzled by this strange set of circumstances. I am even more puzzled as to why I should believe you. By all rights, I should have you seized as enemies of the State!" The speaker noted the fear and uncertainty in the eyes of his audience and smiled, reassuringly. "Instead, I am going to try to assist you. Come!" he urged. "The first thing we must do, is to get you back into your complete uniforms. You **do** know where your helmets, shields and lances are..." he stated hopefully.

Stanley nodded. "Upstairs."

Their 'helper' appeared to be both pleased and relieved to hear that.

All seven men proceeded to head back into the barracks, with the Captain—er, Centurion leading the way.

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Eighteen**

Back in the room where 'it' all began…Five informative minutes later…

Mike Stoker was standing in the doorway, watching the hall.

The rest of the men were sitting on the benches that lined the large wooden table.

The young man with the lavender cloak was seated across from Stanley, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "You do not know how you came to be in this room…and you do not know how to get back to where you were…because where you were does not yet exist?"

The officer and his men nodded.

Their already amazed host looked even more amazed, and somewhat frustrated. "If this is, indeed, the case…then I can see no way in which I can help you to return there."

"And that's the way it is," Chet Kelly bitterly exclaimed, doing a pretty good impersonation of Walter Cronkite, "Tuesday, July 18th, 64 A.D."

The young man saw how terribly sad and lost the strangers looked and flashed them each a sympathetic smile. "I can, however, help you to adjust to your new life—here. I can instruct you in the Imperial Law and secure you citizenship papers…"

"I don't want to 'adjust'," Stoker stated, sounding even more bitter than 'Walter'. "I just want to go home…to my wife and son!"

Stanley stood and crossed over to the door. "We all want to go home, Mike." He placed a supportive hand upon his engineer's sagging shoulder. "And we are **never** going to give up trying to get back there." Hank gave the discouraged man's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then turned to the rest of his crew. "But, right now, we have to make the best of the situation we're in. And that means we're going to have to try—awfully hard—to fit into a time and place we don't belong in—or know anything about. It's going to be hard—but not impossible." He flashed his men a weak smile. "So I want each of us to give it our best shot—" he stopped speaking, as something suddenly dawned on him. "Would yah listen to me…" The fireman's gaze shifted to the floor and he managed another smile, this time, a bitter one. "To hear me talk, you'd think I was still your Captain…"

"_You are, Cap_!" his shift-mates quickly—and unanimously—chorused.

Hank gave 'his' guys a grateful grin, along with a look that told them how much he appreciated their vote of confidence. "In that case…What d'yah say we get started, gentlemen!" he ordered—er, suggested. "After all, THEY say: When in Rome, do as the Romans do!"

The Captain's last statement was partially drowned out—by the groans of his men.

Stanley gave them an unrepentant grin and then re-assumed his seat, directly across from their young ally. "Where do we begin?"

"I believe it will be best, for now, if you were to remain soldiers in the Praetorian Guard. I will arrange the necessary papers."

"Excuse me," Kelly interrupted, unable to contain his curiosity. "But what—exactly—**is** the Praytorion Guard?"

"Yeah," Lopez joined in. "And how is it that _you_ can arrange our papers? Who _are_ you?"

The young man smiled. "I shall answer your last question first. My name is Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus. I am the Quaestor Caesaris of Rome." Gaius saw the men remained confused. "I am Praetor and Consul…"

The officer and his men still looked at a complete loss.

So Gaius exhaled a sigh and then gave it another try. "I am a very important judge and magistrate…" He saw his audience nodding and sighed again—in relief.

Gage judged their host to be about in his mid-twenties. "No offense," he assured the guy, "but aren't you a little _young_ to be a judge?"

The man looked positively radiant. "Indeed, I am!" he declared, sounding every bit as proud as he appeared. "It is considered a tremendous honor to be elected a Statesman at _my_ age."

The Captain and his crew looked duly impressed.

Gaius beamed. "I possess a great deal of political power and influence in this Province," he announced. "For instance, I reside over Jurists, Lictors, Prefects, Tribunes and…" he turned to the officer, "Centurions."

DeSoto leaned into his boss' ear. "And you called him a twit," he quietly reminded the man.

"So," Hank calmly whispered back. "He probably doesn't even know what a twit is."

"For this reason," Gaius continued, "you must always address me in public by my complete title. It is considered disrespectful to do otherwise." He saw that his audience was not too happy to hear that and smiled again. "In private, you may address me by my first name—Gaius."

The officer and his men gave him looks of undying gratitude.

"What are your names?" Gaius wondered. "You **do** know **who** you are…" he teased.

The men were forced to smile.

The Captain leaned across the table and re-extended his right hand. "Hank Stanley," he re-introduced.

Once again, Gaius just gazed down at the officer's proffered appendage, looking puzzled.

"Where we come from, shaking hands is a form of greeting," Hank explained.

Gaius could not concern himself with the strangers' strange customs. There would scarcely be enough time to instruct them in his! "The Imperial Greeting of the Roman State is such—" He demonstrated the 'clenched fist against the chest and then arm extended' technique. "You must practice this greeting and perfect it!" He witnessed their halfhearted attempts and frowned. "If this greeting is not given or returned to a superior officer or Statesman properly, there could be _serious_ consequences!" The instructor saw his pupils' efforts instantly improve and smiled. He turned back to the officer. "You will no longer be called—" he stared at the stranger, looking at a loss.

"—Hank Stanley," the Captain reminded him and had to suppress a smile himself. He found it amusing that a guy with a name like 'Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus' should find a simple name like 'Hank Stanley' so difficult to pronounce.

"Ye-es. Your Roman name shall be Lucius Octavius," Gaius determined. "And your men shall address you publicly as Centurion Lucius Octavius." He turned to the next man.

"Roy DeSoto."

"Romulus Centavion." His eyes moved further down the bench.

"Uhhh…John…John Gage. John is a very common name. Why can't I just keep John?"

"Because you must have a Roman name, and there are no 'Johns' in Rome!"

Kelly looked thoughtful and then leaned into his companion. "Makes yah wonder where they go…when they gotta go…don't it."

Everyone within earshot of the comment grinned and snickered.

"You shall be called Julius Gagius," Gaius finally decided.

Judging by the speed at which his grin vanished, Julius wasn't exactly thrilled to hear that.

"Chester B. Kelly," Chet proudly declared, when their host's gaze fell upon him.

Gaius gave the mustached man a look of obvious approval. "Excellent! You already look and act Roman! All you need now, is a good Roman name…Claudius Licinius," he announced and moved on to the next man.

"Marco Lopez."

"Markus Aurelius." The young man turned to their 'watchman'.

"Michael Stoker."

"Michael Augustus," Gaius promptly pronounced. He turned back to the others. "You must master these new Roman names and absorb these new Roman customs, as quickly as possible! You see, spies are tried, sentenced and put to death—the same day they are discovered!"

The strangers glanced nervously at one another. Then they turned back to their teacher and looked even more attentive.

"Concerning the Praetorian Guard…" their instructor quickly continued. "The main bulk of the Roman Legions are currently engaged in a bitter and bloody war with the Parthians, in the Armenian Province. The rest of the Legions—consisting mainly of cavalry maniples and a few compliments of infantry—are three days march from here. You—er, rather, the Praetorian Guard, are the only large permanent body of troops allowed in the city.

The Guard, which was founded by Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Octavanius Augustus, is comprised of nine cohorts. Each cohort consists of one thousand men, under the command of a Prefect."

"So there are nine Prefects," Stanley—er, Centurion Lucius Octavius reasoned.

Gaius nodded. "Your cohort is under the command of Prefect Augustus Lidicus—" he stopped speaking suddenly and pointed a finger at Julius Gagius. "What are the Roman names of your companions?"

John—er, Julius reluctantly rose to his feet. He drew a deep breath in, and his slouching shoulders back. Then he raised his head erect and gave his questioner the Imperial Greeting of the Roman State. "Quaster Sesarus Prater and Consul Gayus Plinius Saysillias Secondus," he replied in one lo-ong breath. He hesitated a moment or two, looking thoughtful. "Oh…yeah," he muttered, sounding a wee bit embarrassed. "I, uh, almost forgot the question," he explained, with a slightly crooked grin.

The guys grinned.

Julius Gagius saw that his questioner remained unamused and quickly continued. "May I present Senturian Lushious Octavious…Marcus Orelious…Romulous Sentavian…Michael Augustous…and Clodious…" he hesitated briefly, "Lysineous!" he finished with a flare and then stood there, looking tremendously relieved.

His impressed companions gave him a hand.

Julius gave them a grateful bow and Gaius another Imperial Greeting—before dropping back down on the bench.

Their young instructor remained unimpressed. He had each of them give him their Roman names.

No one slipped up—not even once!

Gaius gave the group a look of approval. "Centurion Lucius Octavius, you and your men are fast learners. That is good, because there is very little time. Aside from being the Emperor's personal bodyguards, soldiers in the Praetorian Legion are expected to uphold the Imperial Law and maintain the Civil Order within the Capital."

"Hey! Far out! That makes **us** the 'Fuzz'!" Chet—er, Claudius quickly concluded. "Yah know," the fireman quietly confessed, "I've always wondered what it would be like to be a cop…"

His companions glanced at one another, looking highly amused.

"The main contingent of the Guard will be returning from their morning patrols of the city at any moment now." Gaius stepped around the table and up to Roy—er, Romulus. He motioned for the man to stand.

Roy—er, Romulus reluctantly rose to his feet.

Gaius saw how unsure of himself the stranger seemed to be and frowned. "You must remember that you are Praetorian Guards! You hold positions of great esteem and high honor! You must conduct yourselves accordingly! Romans are proud—vain people!" he paused to pull the cowering man's shoulders back. Then he tilted his chin up and handed him his helmet. "Put this on!" he ordered.

Roy—er, Romulus cringed and obediently began to don his heavy headgear.

"Romulus Centavian!" Gaius shouted. "Roman soldiers **never** 'cringe'! If you are ever to convince Rome, you must first convince yourselves that you are totally fearless, extremely self-confident, terribly vain and sinfully proud! Above all, you must act **proud**! If you do not, your actions will give you away in an instant!" He pulled Kelly to his feet. "Claudius Licinius, show your companions how a Roman soldier conducts himself…"

Kelly looked thoughtful for a moment. Then a very aloof look filled his face. He picked up his helmet and placed it upon his head, as though it were the Emperor's crown. Next, he stepped over the bench and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He examined its blade intently, admiring the sharpness of its edge. He replaced the weapon and picked up one of the wooden shields that were resting on the tabletop. He hefted the heavy object for a moment or two, to get the 'feel' of it. Then he stuck his arm through one of its leather straps, grasped its handle firmly and flexed his fingers until he was satisfied with his grip. He took the same amount of care in picking up and positioning his lance. At long last, he seemed satisfied. So he drew in a deep, relaxed breath and then stood there—proud and erect—looking down his nose at his companions—who were staring up at him in shock and disbelief.

Gaius was extremely pleased with what he had just witnessed. "Claudius Licinius, take over the watch!"

Claudius gave a very snappy Imperial Greeting with his lance. Then he spun on his heels and headed for his post with broad, confident strides.

Gaius smiled approvingly. "Excellent!" he commended. "He could fool the Emperor himself!"

Gage raised an eyebrow and turned to his partner. "I might a' known he'd have a flare for this. He always has been able to 'fake' his way through anything…"

DeSoto smiled at his friend's obvious jealousy.

"I want you all to practice 'looking' and 'acting' Roman," Gaius announced and motioned for the rest of the men to rise to their feet. "_Before_ we leave for my insula," he tacked on. Upon seeing their looks of confusion, he went on to explain, "We must go to my home. So that I may prepare your papers. It will be safer there, anyway and…" he turned to Markus Aurelius, "we may **eat**."

Lopez looked delighted.

His grinning companions shook their heads…and then proceeded to practice 'looking' and 'acting' Roman.

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Nineteen**

Station 51's Captain and crew were given a twenty minute crash course in the Political, Military and Social structures of Rome.

While the men kept up their acting lessons, Gaius drilled them in their other subjects. "Marcus Aurelius, what is a Tribune?"

Marco stopped—right in the middle of one of his _Roman_ _soldier_ strides. 'A Chicago newspaper,' he thought to himself, but replied, "A Tribune commands two Roman Centuries."

His teacher nodded approvingly and turned to the officer. "What is a Centurion?"

Stanley was currently studying one of the weapons that he and his men had _somehow_ been issued. "A Centurion commands one hundred men, or one Roman century," he answered and then squeezed in a quick question of his own. "Gaius…we're not gonna actually hafta **use** these things," he motioned to his drawn sword. "Are we?"

His men all stopped what they were doing and turned to their instructor, nervously awaiting his response.

Seeing their dread-filled faces, Gaius was inclined to reply, "I certainly _hope_ not! For I doubt—very highly—if you would be inclined, or even know _how_, to!"

The officer and his men seemed tremendously relieved to hear that.

Kelly turned his gaze away from the hall for a few moments and raised his lance. "Hey, Julius…with your background, you shouldn't have any trouble handling one a' these."

The guys grinned.

Julius arched an eyebrow, in annoyance.

"Sure," Chet continued, "you could even tie some feathers here at the tip and—"

"—Just watch the hall, huh, _Clod_?" Julius quickly cut in.

"Sure thing…_Julie_!" Clod taunted right back and angled his smirking face toward the hallway.

While Clod watched the hall, his companions watched Gage. They wanted to witness his reaction.

Julie's eyes narrowed into aggravated slits and he gave Clod's back a disgusted sneer.

Gaius had also observed the pair's little 'exchange'. "Good! There is always a healthy rivalry amongst Roman soldiers!" He flashed the Centurion a smile of approval. "I believe you are ready to face Rome!"

"I hope you're right!" Kelly called from the doorway. "Cuz here it comes!" He turned to Stanley. "And it looks like the BRASS, Cap!"

The men panicked and froze.

Gaius hurried over to the door and peaked out into the hall. "Prefect Augustus Lidicus and three of his Tribunes," he announced.

"The BRASS!" Stanley repeated and turned to his men. "This is it, guys. Full dress inspection. Just think of them as Battalion Chiefs…"

His guys rolled their eyes.

"Remember," Gaius warned, "fearless, confident and proud! Above all else, you must act **proud**! Allow me to do all of the talking," he advised and then sank onto one of the benches that lined the long table. "Act casual!" he ordered, in a whisper.

Stanley saw that his men were still frozen and frowned. "At ease!" he prompted his statue-like men, and they finally untensed.

Gage and DeSoto leaned their shields and lances against the wall and slid their heavy helmets off.

Mike and Marco set their equipment down as well and then stood there, looking a whole lot more relaxed than they actually felt.

Kelly set his lance and shield aside and began fiddling with one of the leather laces on his sandals.

Their Captain slipped his helmet off and finally stood 'at ease' himself.

The sound of sandaled footsteps, rustling cloaks and clanking metal grew louder and louder and then stopped—abruptly—just outside of their room.

Stanley drew a deep breath and calmly turned toward the doorway.

Four very official-looking men in their mid-forties had stepped into the room and were standing there, staring at them.

Hank acted surprised—but not impressed—to see them.

The men returned his look.

Young Gaius got calmly to his feet. He stared one of the four men coolly—and directly—in the eyes and gave him the Imperial Greeting. "Prefect Augustus Lidicus…"

The Captain and his crew calmly donned their 'dress caps' and gear, and did the same.

The man and his companions returned their greetings. "Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secondus…" the Prefect cooly acknowledged and gave the strange soldiers a critical eye.

The firemen ignored the intense, suspicious stares they were receiving.

Upon noting that the Centurion and his men were staring nonchalantly back at their suspicious visitors, Gaius smiled—inwardly. "Centurion Lucius Octavius and his men are my personal bodyguards."

The Prefect cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his companions.

Their eyebrows raised, as well.

Lidicus riveted his gaze upon the Captain. "You are not one of _my_ Centurions."

The Captain met the man's gaze, but remained silent.

"You are correct," Gaius replied. "Centurion Lucius Octavius and his men are from another Cohort. Now, shall we move on to the purpose for my visit," he told, more than asked, the older officer.

Lidicus reluctantly turned his attention away from the strange officer and his men and back to his very important visitor.

Gaius locked gazes with Lidicus again. "I want Tribune Vaeus Seneculus' resignation in my hand before this day is ended, or I shall personally see to it that he is brought before the Consul and _forced_ to leave his office in public disgrace!"

Lidicus looked outraged. "Surely this matter does not require such _harsh_ discipline!"

"I will be attending the banquet at the palace tonight," the younger man coolly continued. "You may give it to me then." Gaius gave the Prefect and his Tribunes a parting Imperial Greeting and then strode boldly from the room.

His bodyguards performed the perfunctory greeting. They then formed columns of two and filed silently from the room, matching the young Statesman—bold stride for bold stride.

* * *

Gaius didn't stop until he had reached the redbrick courtyard in front of the building. He turned and watched the Centurion and his men, as they came striding confidently out of the barracks—two abreast—carrying their equipment—and themselves—proudly!

The officer and his men strode right up to their instructor. Then they stopped and stood there, giving him questioning glances.

Gaius grinned and gave the impostors a passing grade. "Congratulations, Centurion! You and your men **are** soldiers in the Praetorian Guard!" he determined, and—for the first time—looked and sounded genuinely _impressed_!

The Captain and his crew returned their teacher's grin and exhaled various sighs of relief. The men glanced at one another…then at their strange surroundings…and their grins gradually began to fade.

Gaius watched, as their faces became filled with looks of sadness and uncertainty—again. "We-ell…" he declared, doing his level best to sound cheerful, "it is a lo-ong walk to my home." He tapped his stomach and gave Markus Aurelius a quick glance. "And I must confess that I, too am beginning to feel hunger."

The men managed brave smiles.

"Come!" Gaius encouraged. "Rome awaits you!" He turned and headed toward the brick-laid street that ran down the hill past the barracks.

The Captain looked up at the barracks…and then down at his crew. The sadness and uncertainty he felt was reflected in their eyes. "You heard the man," he encouraged them, and even managed to muster up a smile. "Let's not keep Rome waiting!" With that, the fireman walked off, in pursuit of their vanishing guide.

Four of his men followed.

* * *

DeSoto suddenly noticed that Stoker was missing from their ranks and returned to the courtyard.

Gage followed his partner back to the barracks.

Kelly followed Gage, and Lopez followed Kelly.

John stood there in the courtyard, fidgeting with his helmet. "I know the _real_ reason Roman soldiers hold their heads like this," he extended his neck and held his head up high. "An' it ain't because a' 'pride'. It's because a' 'pain'. If they _don't_ hold their heads like this, they'll all get splitting headaches from wearing these doggoned heavy helmets! Well, it is!" he insisted, upon spotting Kelly's skeptical stare. "If you don't keep your neck muscles rigid all the time, the doggoned thing is so heavy, it snaps your head forward," he let his neck muscles relax. The weight of the helmet snapped his head forward. He winced in pain and pulled his head back up. "See? If you relax—even a little—you could _break your neck_!"

Chet sighed. "Julius, that is the dumbest thing I've heard since…the last dumbest thing you said!"

Julius stood there, looking both annoyed…and insulted.

Marco managed an impatient sigh. "I don't know about the rest a' you guys, but I'm starving!" He gave their non-moving friend a sympathetic glance and then hurried off down the hill, to catch up to Gaius and their Captain.

Roy had been watching Mike the entire time. He noticed that Stoker hadn't taken his eyes off the barracks for even an instant. "We don't want to leave either," the paramedic quietly confessed, and gripped the motionless man's arm reassuringly. "But I think we'll stand a better chance of getting back, if we all stick together…"

Mike's head slowly turned toward his shift-mates. The engineer re-riveted his gaze upon Roy. Stoker gave his wise friend a grateful smile, the barracks one long, last, parting glance…and then quickly left the courtyard, with his companions.

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 20

"A Work In Progress"

**AN**: The all too realistic _extremely vivid_ dream that Mike Stoker is currently experiencing is a lingering side effect caused by his exposure to the DMCST toxin. Once the guys wake up from their DMCST-induced hallucinatory dreams, the story picks right back up with the four of them all still in the same hospital room and causing their doctor (Morton) and the nurses _fits and conniptions_. :D

**Chapter Twenty**

The four men caught up to their comrades about midway down Palatine Hill.

Gaius, Centurion Lucius Octavius and Markus Aurelius had stopped and waited for them.

All seven then continued down the steep red brick street.

* * *

They passed many people along the way, but none of Rome's citizens paid them any attention.

Horse-drawn chariots kept careening down the slanting street, and—because there were no sidewalks—the firemen were forced to take evasive action to avoid being trampled to death.

Julius and Claudius pressed themselves up against the wall of one of the buildings lining the street, just in time to avoid being struck by the wheel of another out-of-control chariot. They gave its driver a couple of angry glares.

"Quaster Saysarus Prater and Consul Gaius Plinius Saysilius Secondus," Julius suddenly spoke up, in one long breathless breath. "Do you always travel on foot?"

Gaius nodded. "Whenever possible. It is much safer."

Julius and Claudius dodged another chariot and then turned to one another, looking incredulous. "_Safer_?" they chimed together.

"Yes," Gaius continued. "I often witness three or four chariot accidents in a single day."

"Why so many?" Claudius wondered aloud.

Julius shrugged.

"I suspect it is a combination of reckless driving and congested, narrow streets," their guide volunteered.

They reached the bottom of the hill and turned a corner.

Claudius nudged Julius and pointed up to a street sign. "I can just hear the dispatcher, now…Station 51…three chariot accident at the intersection of Mercury and Vesuvius…Ox-cart responding…"

Julius—and the rest of the guys—grinned.

Gaius scowled and continued. "To make matters worse, the Emperor has decreed that the funds—originally set aside for the widening of the streets—shall be used to build four new forums. Forums are large, open-air markets for the buying and selling of many goods, such as food, clothing, art works, household items…" he further explained and finally received several understanding nods.

"Sounds a lot like our shopping centers," Markus commented to Michael.

Michael nodded glumly and then motioned to the crowded, unorganized, congested buildings that surrounded them. "Where are THEY gonna fit four more shopping centers in this mess? I think it's safe to say that Rome can't be employing any city planners."

The rest of the guys agreed.

* * *

The group of travelers passed row after row after row of three and four-storied concrete structures.

Romulus gazed up at one of them. "I wonder what all these buildings are…"

Michael stopped and stared up at the four-storied building beside them, at the evenly spaced open windows…and the balconies with fancy wrought iron railings, covered with bright green vines. "They look like apartment houses."

"What is an 'apartment house', Claudius Licinius?" Gaius wondered.

"Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus, an apartment house is a building in which many people live, where each person or family has their own apartment or group of rooms in which to live," Claudius explained, in one unbelievably long breath.

Gaius gave Claudius an amused glance and then turned to Stoker. "You are correct, Michael Augustus. These are 'apartment houses'. Rome has over 50,000 'apartment houses'. The one I dwell in is located on Stabian Road…North of the Forum Romanum Magnum."

* * *

The group came to another corner—and an unbelievably busy intersection.

Ox-drawn carts, chariots, wagons and pedestrians filled both of the narrow streets to capacity and traffic was barely moving.

"We must cross here," their guide announced.

The firemen pressed their backs into a building and gazed out at the transportation tie-up in amazement.

The Centurion whistled softly. "What a _mess_! Looks just like an LA freeway during rush-hour!"

His men nodded glumly in agreement.

Stanley caught their guide's look of confusion. "We…uh…have things like _this_, back where we come from," he explained.

Gaius seemed somewhat saddened. "I am sorry to hear that."

The guys exchanged glances—and grins.

Julius stared at the congested streets—and the seemingly endless flow of foot traffic. "I, uh, hope we're not waiting for the light to change…"

Several of his companions shot him 'oh brother' looks, and then all eyes riveted back on their guide.

Gaius drew his shoulders back—and a deep breath in. Then he stepped away from the building and headed boldly out into the mass of pushing, shoving, shuffling bodies.

The Centurion turned to his men. "Time to _forge_ _ahead_," he simply said, and followed their leader into the squirming throng.

The guys stared distastefully after their Captain for a few seconds and then, reluctantly, stepped into the steady stream of humanity, as well.

* * *

Rome's visitors were shoved and elbowed and pushed and pressed from all sides.

The firemen put up with it—for awhile—but then began shoving, pushing and pressing back, using their shields and lances to clear their way.

"Ahh-ahh!" the Centurion suddenly shouted out, in agony.

Romulus Centavian heard the cry and saw Stanley grimacing in pain. "What happened, Ca—Centurion Lucius Octavius?"

"Ahh," the Centurion gave the citizen closest to him a not too gentle nudge. "Some twit just stomped on my foot!"

"Centurion Lucius Octavius," Mike called a bit breathlessly up to his Captain, "sounds like you could use…a pair of safety sandals!"

The Centurion's grumpy look vanished, as he was forced to smile.

The rest of the firemen swapped grins again—and kept right on _forging_.

* * *

The Centurion glanced back over his shoulder and discovered, much to his dismay, that they had moved _down_ the street about twenty yards, but _across_ it barely two. Station 51's usually patient Captain suddenly lost his cool. "All right!" he shouted, in a _most_ authoritative manner. "Make way! Give us some room!"

Gaius and the rest of the guys gazed in amazement as the citizenry promptly parted, and an open alley formed before them.

Nobody was more surprised than Stanley. "Well, I'll be…" he mumbled beneath his breath.

He and his men quickly stepped through the opening.

"Bold! Arrogant!" Gaius determined, once they'd regrouped on the other side of the street. He flashed the foreign group's leader a smile of approval. "Centurion Lucius Octavius, you shall have no problem rising in the ranks!"

Hank shot their grinning host a grateful glance. The Captain then established direct eye contact with each member of his five-man crew. "We don't plan to hang around here long enough to _be_ promoted…do we," he told—more than asked—his friends.

The guys all replied anyway, shaking their heads in a unanimous 'No!'

The Centurion flashed each of them a reassuring smile, and then gave their guide a questioning glance.

Gaius saw the look and used a pointed finger to direct the way.

"Step aside!" the Centurion advised the bodies that were blocking their path.

They did.

* * *

"Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus," the Centurion began, several unimpeded blocks later, "just what did Prefect Augustus Lidicus' friend do, to warrant his resignation?"

Gaius scowled. "Tribune Vaeus Seneculus has abused the privileges of his office for the last time! It is public knowledge that he has accepted bribes and used blackmail and extortion to benefit himself financially—for years! Many officers in the Third Cohort practice such things. Prefect Augustus Lidicus is the worst of the lot!"

Julius exchanged grim glances with his partner. "Even ancient Rome is plagued by corrupt politicians…"

"Eh…" Romulus replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "No Prefect is perfect."

Julius Gagius groaned and rolled his eyes.

Their still scowling guide resumed his rant. "But then, Tribune Vaeus Seneculus was caught stealing from the State Treasury! A crime even his political allies do not take lightly. It could cost them many votes in the coming elections."

The group started across a long, narrow, concrete bridge.

Michael Augustus and Markus Aurelius stopped to peer over the railing. The pair stared down at the putrid, murky water of the Tiber River.

"The city's sewage system," Michael disdainfully determined.

Markus frowned and nodded.

The two men turned away from the unpleasant looking—and awful smelling—river and quickly caught back up with their friends.

* * *

As the firemen fought their way through the streets of Rome, Gaius pointed out sites of interest, and explained the various functions of the many buildings and shops they encountered along the way.

They entered a large open courtyard, filled with circus performers and exotic caged animals.

"The people are given free food to satisfy their stomachs, and free circuses to satisfy their minds," Gaius sadly explained. "But very little is ever done to improve the condition of Rome's poor masses. The wealthy upper classes seem content to just keep the poor contented."

They exited the courtyard and started to stroll past more business establishments.

Once again, their guide patiently explained the purpose of each of them.

"Humph," Romulus Centavian suddenly grunted. "Mostly renecs, temples and liveries. Yah know, it's actually amazing how _similar_ ancient Rome is to LA!" He saw his partner's confused look and quickly continued. "Most of the buildings in LA are bars, churches and gas stations, too."

Julius just gave his confusing friend a strange stare and walked on.

* * *

About one mile—and four street changes—later, the group turned yet another corner.

An enormous oval structure appeared.

Gaius was not pleased to discover that the visitors were not impressed by the sight. "The Collosseum Romanum Magnum!" he proudly declared. "Built for the purpose of viewing gladiatorial and pugilistic combats, fights of wild beasts and various other spectacles! Seats close to 45,000 citizens!" he tacked on and was even more dismayed, as the foreigners remained completely unimpressed by the awe-inspiring sight.

The Centurion took note of their guide's look of extreme disappointment. "Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus," he began, speaking in one lo-ong breath, "We, uh, have such a thing where we come from. The Los Angeles Coliseum. Seats over 75,000 citizens."

Their guide looked amazed—and more than a little skeptical.

The strangers nodded.

Gaius was even more astonished. "For what purpose was _your_ Collosseum built?"

Hank looked thoughtful. When it came right down to it, football wasn't really all that different from gladiatorial and pugilistic combats. Except that the players fight until the time runs out—instead of to the death. He thought of the Bears/Rams game that he and a buddy were planning to attend that weekend, and smiled. "Fights of wild beasts," he finally replied. "In which occur tackles, penalties, passes, huddles, touchdowns, fumbles and…various _other_ spectacles." He paused to exchange grins with the rest of the guys. "And, in which—hopefully—nobody gets hurt."

Gaius was now completely flabbergasted. "B-Bu-ut," he finally managed to stammer, "if no injury is inflicted, what is the purpose of the combat? What declares the winner?"

"Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus," Stanley began—again, "the, uh, purpose is to carry an air-filled oval ball of pigskin over the other guys' goal line…and the winners are the ones who do this the most—without allowing the other guys to do it back."

Their guide's confusion was quadrupled. "Centurion Lucius Octavius, my amazement over the details of these contests is exceeded only by my disbelief over the fact that the builders of your Collosseum actually felt that 75,000 citizens would ever care to witness such a thing!"

The Californians couldn't help but chuckle.

The Captain recalled how difficult it had been for him to secure his two tickets. The Coliseum was sometimes sold out—weeks in advance. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath, "it does seem sort a' ridiculous, don't it…"

Gaius aimed another pointing finger and the still-grinning group started striding off, in a new direction.

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-One**

After walking for what felt like hours, Gaius finally came to a halt in front of an 'apartment house' and breathlessly announced, "My insula is on the fourth floor."

The firemen shielded their eyes from a bright, early afternoon sun and looked up at the four-storied concrete building.

"Looks a little _classier_ than the rest," Claudius quietly commented. "No pun intended."

His skeptical-looking companions couldn't help but grin.

"Not only is it _classier_," Markus contributed, "but he happens to have the _penthouse_."

A blast of trumpets suddenly sounded.

Six of the seven men jerked, in startlement, and then began glancing around for the sounds' source.

Stanley watched, as a flood of citizens immediately exited their insulas, and began hurrying off down Stabian Road. "Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus, where is everybody going?"

"To the Forum Romanum Magnum," Gaius responded. He motioned for his strange visitors to follow him into his building and they started heading up a steep, narrow, curving concrete stairway. "The Emperor is dedicating a Triumphal Arch in honor of Governor Suetonius Paulinus, who recently suppressed an insurrection against the State, in the Province of Inceni. I must attend the banquet tonight in his honor. The Emperor has called for a gathering of all the important political figures—in the entire Republic! He has also declared a general celebration in honor of his Consul, Senator Markus Annaeus Seneca's retirement to private life."

The group reached the top of the long stairway and then stood there, panting from exertion.

"Come!" Gaius invited. "We may watch the proceedings from my balcony." He threw a heavy, wooden portal open and they stepped into a spacious, neatly furnished and modestly decorated 8-room apartment. Their host motioned for the Centurion and his men to set down their shields, helmets, breastplates and lances.

His guests gave him various looks of undying gratitude and quickly relieved themselves of their cumbersome armor. The guys viewed their new surroundings approvingly.

"This is a nice insula yah got here, Gaius," Kelly came right out and told him.

The others all nodded their agreement.

Gaius smiled, pleased that his home had met with his guests' approval. The young man's smile broadened, as a beautiful young woman—wearing an elegant white, empire-waisted, floor-length silk gown with a matching cloak—entered the room, and stole the six strangers' attention.

"Oh, Gaius!" she exclaimed and threw herself into her husband's arms to give him a welcoming embrace. "I was so worried! I do wish you would not travel about the city at this time of day," she chastised. "You could be trampled!" With that said, she stood on the tip of her toes and planted a passionate kiss upon her spouse's still-smiling lips.

Gaius noted that his guests had averted their gazes. The young man's smile broadened back into a grin. "Gentlemen," he said, calling their complete attention back to the lovely young lady that was locked in his arms. "May I introduce my wife…Vanessa."

The six men grinned and nodded their greetings.

Vanessa gave the group a gorgeous, warm smile and nodded in return.

"Father! Father!" a young five or six-year-old boy blurted, as he came bursting into the room, grinning from ear to ear.

Gaius smiled and swooped the child up into his arms, to give him a huge hug. "My son," their host proudly declared. "Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus…the Younger."

The firemen flashed Gaius, Jr. some warm smiles and waved 'Hello'.

Gaius set his young son down and then turned to his wife. "Centurion Lucius Octavius and his men will be staying with us for…awhile," he informed her.

Everyone stiffened, as more trumpet blasts filled the air.

"Come!" Gaius urged. "We are just in time to view the dedication. We shall take our meal on the balcony!" he called back over his shoulder and then disappeared through an open, sunlit doorway.

Vanessa studied the Centurion and his men rather thoughtfully for a few seconds, before grabbing the boy by the hand and vanishing herself, in the direction of her kitchen.

* * *

Station 51's crew of six joined their hospitable host out on his broad wrought iron railed balcony. The group gazed out over the clay-tiled roofs of several lower buildings, at an enormous open-air marketplace.

Tens of thousands of people were crowded around the countless marble statues, altars, arches, memorial columns and various other odd-shaped monuments that filled the Forum.

Gaius pointed off into the distance. "Those tall buildings, behind the Forum Romanum Magnum, are the Temples and Basilicas where the Senators meet for General Debate."

The firemen stared disbelievingly down at the scene below them.

"How did they ever find room for _another_ arch?" Marko asked in amazement.

Gaius was forced to smile. "When the center of the Forum becomes so cluttered—so as to seriously obstruct the transaction of business—a general clearance is ordered, and the dedications to past victors and battles are removed…and quickly forgotten." He stopped speaking and pointed to a group of people climbing a tall, wooden scaffolding, to a speaker's platform. "That man leading the procession is my good friend, the distinguished Senator and Consul to the Emperor, Markus Annaeus Seneca. The older couple, just behind him, are the Emperor's parents, Romun Consul, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus and his wife, Agrippina the Younger, daughter of Germanicus Caesar, sister of the Emperor Caligula, and great granddaughter of the Emperor Augustine."

Stanley and his men did their Darndest to appear appropriately impressed.

Chet leaned up against the balcony's wrought iron railing for a closer look. "Who's that scrawny little guy, at the very end there?"

Gaius suppressed a smile. "That is Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus," he calmly replied. "The Emperor of Rome."

Kelly gulped. "Oh."

The guys all glanced at each other and grinned.

"That Forum must cover thirty acres," Mike determined. "Where _are_ they going to cram four more?"

Gaius' grin quickly turned upside-down. "The Emperor has ordered it done. So it shall be accomplished. They will tear down entire blocks of buildings to accommodate them, if they must. It seems that both destruction and construction are always going on, somewhere in this city…"

Stanley arched an eyebrow in thought. "No wonder THEY say 'Rome wasn't built in a—"

The remainder of Hank's comment was drowned out, by the loud groans of his men.

* * *

One Triumphal Arch dedication—and one memorable meal of roasted leg of lamb, some unidentified steamed vegetables, several loaves of fresh **real** Roman Meal bread, and a few bottles of fine red wine—later…

Gaius' young wife stepped back out onto the balcony.

The lady said nothing, as the Centurion and his men thanked her—profusely—for preparing such a fine meal for them. Why, the soldiers couldn't seem to stop raving about the quality of her cooking.

But, when two of the men actually volunteered to help her clear away the empty plates, Vanessa could no longer contain herself. The woman waved off their offer of assistance and then smiled, rather wryly. "It is so _refreshing_ to witness such a display of gratitude and gracious behavior from members of the Praetorian Guard," she said, not sounding the least bit sincere. She eyed each of the _refreshing_ fellows critically for a few seconds and then calmly inquired, "What are your _real _occupations?"

Their hostess' question caught Station 51's _undercover_ crew completely off-guard. The firemen exchanged anxious glances and then turned to Gaius.

Gaius' shoulders sagged and he exhaled an exasperated gasp. "Woman, is there no secret which may pass you **un**revealed?"

The woman's wry smile turned smug and she shook her pretty little head.

Her smugness caused Gaius to gasp—again. "Relax," he advised his now nervous guests. "Vanessa would _never_ betray you."

The firemen exchanged glances—again and untensed…some.

Vanessa gave the gracious group another warm smile. "For some reason, as _yet_ unknown to me, my husband has decided to risk both his political reputation—and his life—to help you. He obviously feels that you are worth the risk, and I trust his judgment—implicitly. After all, he was wise enough to marry _me_…" she paused to give Gaius an adoring glance. "Was he not?"

The wise man couldn't help but smile.

Their guests grinned and became totally at ease once more.

"You are correct," Hank confessed. "We're not soldiers. We're firemen."

Gaius and Vanessa turned to one another, looking at a total loss.

"We fight fires," the fireman further explained. "Surely a city of this size _must_ have firemen…"

A look of dawning understanding came over Gaius and he opened his mouth to speak.

However, before he could say anything, the insula's front door flew open. There was a flurry of sandaled feet across the apartment's floor. A few seconds later, a rather distraught looking Gaius the Younger came bursting out onto the balcony. The child threw himself into his mother's comforting embrace and then clung to her, crying his little heart out.

"What is it, Gaius?" one of the boy's panicked parents quietly inquired.

"Gaius, what has happened?" the other demanded, a little more loudly.

The boy proceeded to blurt out an unintelligible tale, between sniffles and heart-wrenching sobs.

"His young friend has fallen into the river and drowned," Vanessa interpreted, upon seeing their concerned guests' questioning stares.

The firemen sprang to their feet.

"How long ago did it happen?" Hank asked their hostess.

Vanessa questioned her son and then looked up. "It just happened a few moments ago. He has just come from the riv—"

"—Gaius," Stanley interrupted, "you must take us there!"

Gaius just stood there, in a state of utter confusion.

The fireman gripped their young friend's shoulder. "Please? There's no time to explain! Just take us to him!"

Gaius stooped back down to his son's level. "Where did this happen?"

Station 51's A-shift listened as the child gave his father the 'call' address.

Their guide straightened back up and then beckoned the strangers to follow him. "Bring your helmets, shields and lances!"

The firemen reluctantly snatched up the heavy, awkward equipment and then followed Gaius down the building's long and twisting flight of stairs.

The seven men exited the building and then headed off down Stabian Road—at a run.

* * *

Less than a minute later, they reached the incident scene—one of the many bridges that crisscrossed the Tiber.

A small group of people was huddled at the near end of the bridge, where a young woman was kneeling beside a young boy's motionless body, alternately screaming hysterically…and weeping bitterly.

Hank and his Engine crew quickly moved everybody back.

Gage and DeSoto dropped their awkward gear and then themselves down onto the red bricks, beside the boy.

"Ma-am," John gently eased the sobbing woman off the child's motionless chest. "Ma-am, we're gonna need a little room to work here, okay?"

The woman gazed at the soft-spoken soldier in blurry-eyed confusion for a bit, but then reluctantly allowed two of the other Guards to gently ease her to her feet and away from her son's lifeless body.

Gage glanced up from taking their drowning victim's corotid. "Weak and thready! Better get 'im ventilated, or we're gonna lose 'im!"

DeSoto nodded. "Pupilary response is excellent. If we can get him breathin' again, there shouldn't be any brain damage."

John extended the boy's neck and pinched his nostrils closed. Then he covered the child's mouth with his and forced air into his no longer functioning lungs.

His partner paused in his initial patient assessment. "His abdomen is rigid and distended. We prob'ly got a lot of water down there."

"I'm getting…a real good…air exchange," Gage announced, between breaths. "I don't think…he's aspirated…yet." He gave their victim another life-giving breath of air.

Suddenly, the boy's body wretched.

The small group of spectators had grown to a rather large crowd of onlookers. The group gasped—in unison, startled by the sudden movement of a dead child.

The paramedics immediately rolled the kid onto his side, to keep him from aspirating.

The victim vomited a great deal of filthy river water onto the red bricks of the bridge.

The moment the boy stopped heaving, he was eased over onto his back and given more forced ventilations.

Gage saw the child's chest heave and halted his AR.

Their victim coughed—violently—for quite some time. The coughing gradually subsided and his short, labored gasps for air became longer, more relaxed breaths.

The dark-haired paramedic placed an ear against the child's chest. He listened to their drowning victim's lungs for about a half a minute. Then he picked his head up and locked gazes with his partner. "Both sides sound relatively clear," he was pleased to report.

The no longer coughing kid's big brown eyes finally fluttered open. He gazed rather dazedly up at the two smiling strangers who were hovering over him for a few moments. Then his peepers widened even further and his face filled with pure panic. He lifted his head and glanced furtively around. The little boy caught sight of his mother and immediately began to cry.

Gage and DeSoto exchanged triumphant grins. Gawd! But that was a _glorious_ sound!

Roy stood stiffly up and then pulled his equally stiff partner to his feet. The pair dusted their bare knees off and then stepped back from the boy. It was now their turn to give the mother some room.

The woman scooped her young son up into her arms and then hugged him so tight he nearly went into respiratory arrest again. She opened her tear-filled eyes and stared up at the two strange soldiers, looking somewhat astounded. "He had no breath!" She pulled back and stared disbelievingly down at her sniffling offspring. "Yet he lives!" She glanced back up and gave her son's rescuers looks of undying gratitude.

The firemen finished gathering up their gear and flashed the young woman back some 'You're welcome' smiles.

Mike and Marko assisted both the mother and the boy to their feet.

The woman picked the still whimpering child up and began carting him off down Stabian Road, all the while chastising him for disobeying her and playing on the bridge.

The large crowd of proud Roman citizens slowly started to disperse. The people gave the strange group of soldiers suspicious stares and began wandering off, whispering amongst themselves.

Gaius just continued to stand there—looking too stupefied to speak. He stared at the strange _firemen_ as though he were seeing them for the first time. "You are physicians, _also_?" he wondered in amazement, when he'd finally found his voice.

"Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus," Hank respectfully replied, "where we come from, all firemen are trained to administer Basic First Aid. Some—like Romulus and Julius here—have been trained to administer more advanced life-saving medical procedu—"

"—Never mind, Centurion Lucius Octavius," Gaius interrupted, suddenly sounding anxious. "Come! We must move quickly! When word of _this_ gets out, there will be many, _many_ questions…" he and his words trailed off, in the direction of his insula.

The firemen glanced nervously at each other…and at their strange surroundings…and then quickly followed their fleeing guide back down the red brick road.

* * *

Later that same afternoon…

Stanley and his men found themselves back out on Gaius' sunlit balcony. They'd been sitting out there for hours, squirming restlessly in their hard wooden seats.

Every once in a while, one of them would stand and pace up and down along the wrought iron railing.

Gage watched Kelly pace past him.

Chet reached the end of the balcony and immediately did an about face.

As he did so, his skirt flared out, causing John to smile.

"What's so funny?" Kelly grumpily demanded, as he passed the still-smiling paramedic, again.

Gage opened his mouth to explain, but then changed his mind. "Watch," he simply said and got stiffly to his feet.

Kelly watched.

The now-pacing paramedic reached the end of the balcony, spun quickly on his heels, and began heading back.

Chet's grumpy look vanished, as he, too, was forced to smile.

"Everything is now in perfect order," Gaius informed the foreign firemen, as he finally rejoined them on his balcony. "You are now _officially_ citizens of the Roman State—free to come and go as you like…" He saw that his guests were not as excited by this bit of good news, as he had hoped they would be, and turned to their leader. "What is wrong?"

"Ah-ah...We don't mean to seem ungrateful, Gaius. We really appreciate what you've done for us! It's just that…" Stanley hesitated, struggling for the right words, "well, we don't wanna **be** _citizens of the Roman State_. We just wanna go _ho-ome_!"

Gaius saw the others nodding sadly in agreement. He gave each of his home-sick houseguests a sympathetic glance. "I understand…and I am truly sorry…but this is the only way, that I _know_ of, to assist you…" the young statesman finished his heartfelt confession and promptly proffered the important-looking parchment papers, that he'd been clutching in his hands, to the unhappy firemen. Speaking of firemen…Gaius suddenly remembered something and his gloomy countenance brightened—considerably. "I took the liberty of resigning you all from the ranks of the Roman Army. I sensed that your hearts were not really in your work. So you are no longer Praetorian Guards."

The firemen stared down at their citizenship documents were delighted to discover that Gaius had given them back their **real** names. They glanced up from their _official_ papers, not knowing quite how to cope with the news that their _undercover_ career status had also been altered.

Gaius' eyes sparkled with mischief. "As Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul of Rome, I have—as of this day—instituted a new public service. This new service shall be known as the Citizen Guard. The Citizen Guard has been established for the following purpose: to assist Rome's existing Vigilantes with the extinguishing of fires, and to provide _Basic First Aid_ to the general public. This special contingent will be based at Rome's Twelfth Vigil, which is located on Stabian Road, about a fourth of a mile from here, and it will be comprised of _six_ men…" he flashed his six firemen friends a rather wry smile. "You men would not—by any chance—be seeking gainful employment?"

The six firemen grinned and—for the first time since their…_arrival_ in ancient Rome—appeared genuinely _happy_.

Gaius grinned as well. "I shall take that as a 'Yes'. Citizen Hank Stanley, I shall see to it that you are appointed to command the new contingent. Your new title shall be _Captain_, and you shall be addressed, publicly, as _Captain Hank Stanley._"

Hank looked a little overwhelmed.

His men grinned again and voiced their unanimous approval of Gaius' _appointment_.

Citizen Kelly suddenly looked curious. "What, exactly, is a Vigil?"

"Rome is divided into fifteen Districts," Gaius informed them. "There are seven Vigils scattered about these Districts. Vigils are the barracks of the Vigilantes—the _firemen_ of Rome," he stopped and turned to Citizen Stanley. "Yes, Captain," he teased. "We have such men, where I come from." Gaius turned back to the entire group. "I shall propose my plans to the Senators tonight, at the banquet. By this time tomorrow, the Roman Senate shall have issued the edict and appropriated the necessary funds. I shall take you to the Twelfth Vigil in the morning, so that arrangements may be made for your living quarters, uniforms and any equipment you may deem necessary to fulfill your duties as Citizen Guards. If there is anything to be discussed further, we may do so upon my return from the banquet."

The six firemen gave their influential young friend grateful grins and then extended their hands toward him, palms up and open.

Gaius hesitated for an instant or two, but then took and shook each of their hands—firmly.

Hank grinned and then commented to his shift-mates, "Sheesh! He's got a pretty good handshake for a _politician_, doesn't he…"

The guys grinned and snickered and nodded their agreement.

Gaius returned their grins and then hurried off, to get bathed and dressed for the Emperor's banquet.

**TBC  
**


	22. Chapter 22

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"Horses!" John Gage suddenly shouted, his voice shrill with excitement.

Their host and his wife had departed for the banquet. Gaius Jr. was spending the night with his young drowning victim friend, and the six time travelers were seated...back out on the insula's balcony.

The dark-haired paramedic was pacing along the railing, waving his animated arms wildly through the air. "Of course! That's it! We train a bunch a' guys...and then station 'em at the other six Vigils! That way, we could have mounted two-man squads of Citizen Guards patrolling the entire city!" The paramedic stopped, right in mid-pace and turned to Stanley. "What d'yah think, Cap?...Ca-ap?"

"Sorry," his preoccupied Captain finally came back. "I wasn't listening." His body may have been on the balcony, but his mind was elsewhere. "Something about all this has been bothering me, ever since we got here. But I _can't quite_ put my finger on it..." Hank's words wandered off, along with his attention.

Mike gazed glumly around the balcony. "I never thought I'd ever see the day when **I** would actually _miss_ television."

His companions grinned and squirmed restlessly in their seats. Stoker was not alone in his boredom.

"Hey!" Kelly suddenly leapt to his feet and stepped up to the railing. "Get a load a' that!"

"Get a load a' what?" John wondered, stepping up beside him.

Chet pointed off into the distance, in the direction of the setting sun. "Smoke! A whole lot a' smoke!"

Gage rolled his eyes. "Well of course there's a whole lot a' smoke! There are no gas or electric ranges around. Every insula must have to burn wood to coo—"

"—I know! I know!" his finger-pointing friend assured him. "But that's waaaay too much smoke for just a little wood stove fire!"

The rest of the firemen joined Kelly and Gage at the railing and then stared off into the distance, at an enormous plume of ascending smoke.

"There must be several blocks already involved!" Stanley surmised.

Stoker took note of the rather brisk breeze at their backs. "Yeah, and this wind is gonna whip that fire right through the city."

Lopez nodded glumly in agreement. "And once it guts out the buildings' wooden support beams...they'll all collapse."

An already restless John Gage was becoming antsier by the second. "What are we gonna do, Cap?"

Stanley stared helplessly off at the horizon, at the rising column of thick, black smoke. "What _can_ we do?" he asked right back. "We have no trucks—which means, we have no water." He motioned to their bare arms and legs. "We have no protective gear, no air masks...nothing!"

"The six of us couldn't stop it—even if we _had_ all our trucks and equipment," DeSoto determined. "This wind will whip the flames through all those open doors and windows so fast, we wouldn't stand a chance of fighting it."

"Roy's right," Stoker stated. "History records that, during Emperor Nero's reign, two thirds of Rome was destroyed by fire. The six of us can't change world history."

Stanley suddenly straightened and stepped back from the railing. "We may not be able to change the history of the world. But we might be able to change history for a few hundred people in the path of that fire." He turned to his men. "Any volunteers?"

His fellow firefighters exchanged grins and then eagerly stepped forward.

"Great!" Hank flashed each of his willing companions a warm smile. "Then what do you guys say, we go assist the Vigilantes with their general evacuation of Rome's citizenry?"

The guys nodded their readiness and then quickly followed their Captain from the balcony.

* * *

The firemen stepped briskly down the building's steep, curved stairway and began jogging off down Stabian Road in the direction of the setting sun...and the fire.

* * *

A little over half an hour of alternately running and walking later, the rescuers finally managed to reach the section of the city that was burning.

With dusk rapidly descending, and the smoke steadily increasing, visibility upon their arrival was poor. Soon, it would be zero.

Torches illuminated many of the buildings' entryways. The already coughing men snatched six of them from their brackets. Then they covered the lower half of their faces with their linen shirts, and continued to head toward the fire.

They passed a proud, Roman citizen, going in the opposite direction.

"Centurion, wait!" the man called after them. "You must go no further!"

Stanley stopped and turned in the concerned voice's direction. "Why-y?"

The concerned citizen gave the strangely dressed—er, half-dressed Guards a suspicious stare. "Surely, you must know! The Emperor has forbidden entry into the Christian Sector of the city—upon penalty of death!"

Hank exchanged nervous glances with his men, before turning back to the guy. "Why-y?"

"The Emperor has declared Christians to be enemies of the Roman State!"

"Why-y?"

The citizen seemed to be astounded by the Centurion's ignorance. "The Christians refuse to kill or take up weapons. They refuse to drink blood at the temples to the gods. They are meek, humble—disgusting—people!"

"Sorry to hear you feel that way," the Centurion told him. "They sound like our kind a' folks."

That said, the rescuers went racing down the red brick street...and right into Rome's Christian Sector.

* * *

The firemen finally reached the inferno's smoldering fringe and halted.

The Captain frowned down at their bare arms and legs for a few moments and then began issuing orders. "Try to avoid buildings with any open flames visible. Mike, you and John and Marco—take the right side of the street. Roy and I, and Chester, here, will take the left. Okay, let's move out and move quickly! We gotta try to stay ahead a' this thing!"

The men moved out and moved quickly.

* * *

After sweeping a few buildings, both teams of evacuators regrouped in the street.

The Captain coughed and then breathlessly inquired, "Anything?"

His men shook their heads. They hadn't found anybody to evacuate.

Kelly coughed. "Where could they have all gone?"

Stoker's flame-lit face suddenly filled with dawning understanding and he stared down at the red bricks beneath his feet. "The catacombs!"

The rest of the guys glanced at each other and then down at the street.

"Well...they should be safe down there," Hank determined. "C'mon! Let's get back to work! This fire is about to enter the _Pagan_ Sector!"

He and his men hurried off down the street, to where they'd last seen that 'concerned' Roman citizen.

Stoker, Gage and Lopez began evacuating the buildings on the right.

Stanley, DeSoto and Kelly started sweeping the buildings on the left.

* * *

Mike reached the top of another long, narrow, winding concrete stairway, and pounded upon another thick wooden portal with the butt of his already bruised, and painfully sore, fist. He winced and made a mental note to find some kind a' blunt object to bang on doors with.

The portal finally opened and a rather irate citizen greeted him. "What do you want?"

Stoker breathlessly began repeating his mantra. "The Emperor...has ordered...a general evacuation...of this section of the city!"

The already annoyed guy looked even more upset. "Why?"

Mike shot the man an 'are you for real?' look. "Can't you smell the smoke?...Rome is burning!...In just a few more minutes...this building...is gonna be full of flames!"

The guy stared back at him in disbelief and then began sniffing, nervously.

"Hurry!" Stoker advised. "You must take your family...and get out—_now_!"

The man began racing around his insula, gathering his valuables up in his arms.

Mike exhaled an exasperated gasp. "There's no time for that! Just take your family and go!"

But the guy completely ignored him.

Stoker stepped into the apartment and guided the homeowner's wife and four small kids out the door. "You must get out of the building," he told the frightened woman. "Once you're out, take your children and head away from the fire—just as fast as you can!"

The woman nodded and immediately disappeared down the stairs with her equally frightened offspring.

Mike turned back to the man. "Look, I strongly urge you to forget about that stuff and concentrate on getting out of here alive! None of those things are gonna do you any good, if you're _dead_!"

The guy dropped two more armfuls of valuables onto a blanket and then raced off to gather up more.

The first wind-whipped tendrils of fire began to appear in the insula's open windows.

Recalling his Captain's order about avoiding buildings with open flames visible, Stoker coughed and quickly headed down the narrow, concrete stairway.

* * *

Fifteen hectic, exhausting, breathless minutes later, the two teams again regrouped in the street.

DeSoto coughed painfully, and blinked his tear-streaming, smoke-irritated eyes. "Wish we would a' thought...to bring some water with us...so we could flush the ash and soot...out of our eyes."

"Yeah," Gage glumly agreed, between coughs. "Or wet our shirts down."

"Gentlemen," their Captain spoke, between fitful bouts of coughing, "we have a problem...The fire...is moving faster...than we are."

"Where the heck are _Rome_'s firemen?" Marco demanded, sounding more than a little miffed.

Kelly coughed. "Good question!...I haven't seen a single one!...I hate to say this...But I'm beginnin' to think...they must be sittin' around their Vigils...playin' cards!"

The guys glanced blurrily at one another and managed some morbid smiles.

Chet choked back another painful cough and continued. "I tried to get...a couple a' proud Roman citizens...to help us...but they just...ran off!"

"Centurion!" someone suddenly shouted out.

Stanley spun around and spotted a half-dozen men huddled together, about a hundred feet further up the street.

One of the men, whose nose and mouth was covered with a strip of wet cloth, began to approach their little group—rather cautiously. "We have been watching you and your men, and we would like to assist you. That is, _if_ you will allow us..." the young man's slightly muffled words trailed off and he humbly bowed his head.

The inferno's raging flames were quickly closing in on their position. They flickered ominously and cast eerie, dancing shadows upon the young man and his companions, as they stood there in the smoke-filled street...looking so 'humble' and 'meek'.

Hank flashed the Christians a grateful grin. "Why, thank you _very much_! We could _sure_ use your help!" With that, he waved for the little group of volunteers to join their ranks.

The young man stepped right up to the Centurion. "We brought you these..." he said, and promptly proffered a palm full of water-soaked strips of heavy muslin cloth, so the soldiers could cover their noses and mouths, as well.

The firemen gave their benefactors looks of undying gratitude and began tying the protective strips of damp cloth in place.

"All right, half of you men come with me!" Stanley told the new recruits. "The rest of you go with these men, here!" Hank motioned to his Engineer's team. "Let's get back to work, gentlemen!"

Back to work they went.

* * *

Two extremely tiring hours later, the evacuators began gathering in the street, to regroup once more.

"Ma-an!" Hank hunched over and rested his hands on his bare knees. "Those Christian guys," he breathlessly continued, his voice hoarse from inhaling waaaay too much soot and smoke, "came along...just in time...didn't they?"

Gage, Stoker and Lopez were still too breathless to speak. So the trio simply nodded.

With the additional help, they'd been able to stay a step ahead of the fire.

Mike coughed and exhaled a weary sigh. "I sure wish...the Romans...had invented...the elevator!"

His companions grinned behind their muslin masks.

More and more rescuers began to join their growing group.

Stanley noted that each new arrival also appeared to be completely beat on his feet.

Which certainly came as no surprise. After all, they'd just swept hundreds of buildings and successfully assisted the elderly and the infirm, and women—with more children than they had arms to carry and hands to hold—to escape from the rapidly-advancing fire's path. He figured they had managed to alert and evacuate several thousand people out of harm's way.

But they couldn't continue to work under such adverse conditions much longer, especially not at such a grueling pace!

Hank gazed blurrily into his men's swollen, red and watering eyes and saw that their spirits were still willing. It was just their bodies—and not their resolve—which had been weakened. He knew his crew. His guys would just keep going and going until they dropped..._if_ he let them. But he would _never_ let them. The Captain cared too much for his men—his friends—to ever _allow_ them to push themselves to their breaking point. "We'll work three more blocks. And then, I'm afraid, we're gonna hafta call it quits."

The guys exchanged exceedingly grim glances and then gave their solemn leader looks that told him they understood _why_ he'd been forced to make his extremely difficult decision.

The raging, wind-swept fire was, once again, closing in on them.

The regrouped rescuers had gotten _most _of their labored breath back. So they began to head off up the street...to sweep more insulas...and evacuate more citizens.

* * *

"Why are we even bothering to sweep _this _building?" Marco griped, as he and his torch-carrying teammates started up yet another steep, winding stairway. "I couldn't see any candles or lamps burning in any of the windows."

"Maybe the lights are off, but somebody's home?" Mike wittily remarked.

"What?" John, whose turn it was to take the top floor—and so he was in the lead—inquired. "You don't think somebody could be _sleeping_ in here? I don't know about you guys, but I always shut the lights _off_ when I go to bed—damn!" the paramedic cursed, as the light in his hand began to flicker and dim. He stopped climbing and turned to his companions. "Marco, trade torches with me, will yah. I think mine's about to go out." He handed his faltering torch off to Stoker.

Who passed it to along to Lopez.

Marco took the dim torch into his left hand and then passed Mike the bright light in his right.

"Thanks!" John latched onto the new torch Mike had just handed him and turned back to start heading up the stairs again. "Oomph…Oh…Sorry," he said, as he suddenly stumbled into somebody. "I didn't realize you were there," he told the body standing on the step above him.

The man on the step was carrying a bundle on his back—and something shiny in his hand. The guy spotted the bright-blue color of the torch carrier's leather wrist protectors and plunged the shiny object he was toting into the Praetorian Guard's unprotected chest.

Mike heard John inhale sharply. Then somebody came barreling past him down the narrow staircase. Both he and Marco nearly lost their balance went toppling backward.

John just stood there, in a state of shock. The assault had left him too stunned to move and too breathless to speak. His still-held breath escaped at last, as a rather loud groan. "Ahh-uhh!" He allowed the torch to slip from his grip and instinctively started reaching for the left side of his chest. His trembling hands found the dagger's handle...and gripped it. He could feel his legs beginning to buckle. "Then again," he gasped breathlessly, "there could be...a _looter_...in here...who doesn't wanna be...evacuated."

Speaking of toppling...

The paramedic's bare—buckling—knees struck the cold, abrasive concrete of the stairway. The pain produced by that jarring impact caused him to '_gasp_' and '_groan_' again. His body slowly began slumping, sideways.

Mike promptly passed his torch to Marco. He caught their collapsing companion under his arms and carefully turned him around. "What's wrong, Johnny? What hap—?" Stoker saw the paramedic's bloodstained appendages clutching the handle of the dagger that had been embedded in his chest, and immediately stopped speaking. He and the torchbearer exchanged horrified glances. Mike swallowed hard and forced himself to face their fallen friend. "Johnny? Do you...want us to...take it out?"

Johnny shook his head. "I'll...I'll bleed...to death."

'Faster...' Mike morbidly realized—solely to himself. 'You'll bleed to death faster.' There were no ambulances...no ER's...no surgeons around to operate and stop the hemorrhaging. He grimaced and then gave their mortally wounded friend's shoulder a slight squeeze. "What _do_ you want us to do for you?"

The air in the stairwell was becoming smokier, by the second.

The hurting fireman fought back a cough. "You could...get us all outta here...These stairs...ain't exactly...comfortable," John joked and even managed, somehow, to muster up a wan smile.

Mike and Marko each took a torch and an arm and then carefully hauled him to his feet.

The paramedic clenched his teeth, to keep from crying out, as he was half-dragged and half-carried back down the narrow staircase...and out into the smoke-filled street.

* * *

Roy watched as Mike and Marco came out of the building they'd been sweeping...carrying someone between them. Since he'd already completed his latest floor assignment, he hurried off across the smoky street, to give them a hand with their victim. "What hap—?" his mouth stopped working, as he saw whose weight the two men were supporting. He noted that his partner's bloodstained fingers were wrapped around a dagger handle...and went completely numb.

"Some proud Roman citizen...must've been looting that building!" Mike explained, his hoarse voice filled with anger. "Johnny, here, got in his way..."

DeSoto forced his frozen limbs into action. "Let's get him away from the fire!" he urged, and helped them carry his collapsed partner further off up the street.

* * *

They got a good distance from the burning buildings and then carefully set their burden down on the cold red bricks.

Two of their Christian helpers came running up.

One of them removed his cloak and used it to cushion the injured Guard's head.

The other placed his cloak carefully down, covering the now-shivering man's bare legs.

Roy dropped to his bare knees beside his hurting buddy. "Talk to me, Johnny!" he pleaded, and pulled the protective muslin mask from his partner's nose and mouth.

Johnny forced his tightly shut eyes open. He saw his friends all staring down at him, looking so anxious and concerned. He raised his head a bit and caught sight of his bloody hands, still clutching the handle of the eight-inch dagger that had been plunged into his left ribcage. He grimaced and allowed his head to drop back. Damn! He had been hoping it wasn't real. "There is a..." he gasped, through gritted teeth, "a sharp..._stabbing_...pain...in my...left side," he breathlessly reported. "But...don't worry...cuz...I think...I got...a..._handle_...on it," he concluded. He flashed his worried colleagues a crooked smile, and even managed an amused gasp or two—between groans.

"How long did it take yah...to come up with that?" DeSoto pondered, with a considerable degree of difficulty. His throat had become so tight he could barely speak.

"'Bout...two...minutes," his partner replied, with another lopsided grin.

Stanley and Kelly and a half a' dozen more evacuators came running up just then.

"What's goin' on—?" the Captain inquired, but then froze, seeing Gage lying there in the street, looking so ghostly pale. He spotted the dagger handle protruding from the paramedic's chest and his own heart about stopped. "John!" he exclaimed, dropping quickly to his bare knees. "What happened, pal?"

John swallowed hard and unclenched his teeth. "Well, Cap...it seems some...turkey—" he stopped speaking and aimed a puzzled gaze at his partner. "Wonder what the...Roman...word...for...turkey...is?"

Roy gripped his friend's shoulder reassuring. "Turkey-is?" he volunteered, in support of his hurting friend's latest attempt to lighten the mood.

Gage grinned and snickered, between groans.

Stanley suddenly stiffened. "_That's_ it!" he shouted. "That's_ it_!" he repeated, his raised voice filled with excitement. "Remember when I said that something has been bothering me about this whole thing since we got here?"

Each member of his crew nodded, thoughtfully.

"Well, John just pointed it out! Don't you see? If this were _really_ happening—if we were _really_ here—we'd all be speaking _Latin_, instead of English!"

Mike Stoker remained confused. "So, if none of this is _real_, then...what **is** goin' on?"

"Maybe," John began, struggling desperately to breathe, "at least...I hope...this is all...just a...a..._ba-ad_...drea-eam."

"He's right!" Hank reasoned. "One of us _must_ be dreaming..." He gazed up into the faces of his men.

"It can't be _me_!" Marco assured his Captain. "This is all so...realistic! And I don't know the first thing about Rome!"

Kelly gave Gage a worried glance. Their friend's condition seemed to be deteriorating by the second. "I've seen Ben Hur four times..." he volunteered.

John snickered softly and then lay there, groaning.

The Captain dismissed Kelly's comment with a roll of his eyes. "It has to be someone who knows a **lot** about Roman history..."

Mike Stoker felt extremely uncomfortable, as all eyes suddenly riveted upon him.

Stanley got stiffly to his feet and stepped up to his knowledgeable Engineer. "Wake up, Mike! The fire's closing in! John is dying! Wake up! Before you get us all killed! Wake up, Mike! That's an order!"

_Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!_

* * *

Karen Stoker stiffened and sat forward in her seat, as her fitfully dozing husband suddenly began tossing his head and moaning.

"Johnny's dying!" Mike mumbled in his sleep. "The fire! THE FI-IRE!" He heard someone pleading with him to wake up. He snapped bolt upright and then obligingly forced his blurry eyes open. His rather alarmed looking wife was seated beside him on the bed. "Karen! Johnny's dying! The fire's—" he was forced to stop speaking, as two fingers were pressed over his lips.

"—Michael, relax!" Karen urged. She gripped her panic-stricken spouse's arms and gave them a reassuring squeeze. "Johnny is _not_ dying! He's lying right over there...sleeping like a baby. You were just having a bad dream, is all..." she soothingly said and gently eased the dreamer back down onto his hospital bed.

Her husband immediately popped back up and then sat there, trembling. "It was _too real_ to be a _dream_!" he insisted. "It was all so real! _So_...**real**!" _Real_ reality suddenly hit him and he pulled his wife into his arms. "Oh, Karen! I thought I was _never_ going to see you again!"

"I'm sorry, Honey..." Karen patted her upset hubby comfortingly on the back. "I came up just as soon as Visiting Hours started."

Mike managed an amused gasp. "I didn't mean tha-at," he assured her and held onto her even tighter.

"Mmm-mmm," his contented wife purred. "You should have nightmares more often."

Stoker pulled back and gave the woman a look of extreme skepticism. He gazed rather relievedly around the room, at his three peacefully sleeping shiftmates. He saw Gage hanging half off of his bed. "I guess you were right, Johnny," he muttered, just beneath his breath. "It doesn't really matter _when_ a fireman is a fireman...cuz' his job is _always_ dangerous. What really counts, is _who_ he's doing the job _with_. It wouldn't matter to me _when_ I was a fireman...as long as it was _with you guys_..." He flashed his friends a warm smile. Then he dropped back onto his hospital bed and took his beautiful young bride back up into his arms.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Kelly was crawling along a dark, narrow catwalk, fifty feet above the concrete floor of an abandoned refinery, holding onto a charged fire hose.

Lopez was just ahead of him, manning the nozzle.

Something struck Chet's helmeted head—hard—and he suddenly felt himself falling…falling…falling…

* * *

Kelly awoke in a hospital bed, in a strange, bright place, surrounded by very complex-looking scientific equipment.

"Welcome back, Mr. Kelly!" some unseen dude suddenly said.

Chet blinked and slowly turned his head in the voice's direction.

A gentleman in a white lab coat was smiling down at him.

The fireman found the man's face every bit as unfamiliar as his voice. "Do I _know_ you?"

The stranger's smile broadened. "I've known _you_ for some time now, but I'm afraid we haven't been formally introduced, yet. I'm Dr. Rudolph Wells. How do you feel?"

Chet swallowed hard and blinked again. "Stra-ange," he told the white-smocked doctor standing beside his hospital bed, "really s-t-r-a-n-g-e." He groaned and started to squirm around. He felt so stiff and sore. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You are in the Intensive Care Unit of Graham's Medical Center, in Boston, Massachusetts. This center is a government-funded research hospital. You were fighting a fire in an old chemical refinery. You were knocked out and fell fifty feet from a catwalk. Remember?"

"I sort a' remember the fire…and feeling like I was falling. _Massachusetts?_" he repeated, sounding rather alarmed and struggled up onto his elbows. "How did I get **he**—?"

"—Relax!" Wells ordered and eased him back down on the bed.

Kelly obediently untensed, some.

The doctor avoided his patient's anxious stare. "You were rushed to Rampart General Hospital with multiple compound fractures of every major bone in your body."

Chet's eyes widened with shock and his mouth dropped open to speak.

"Plea-ease," Wells pleaded, "let me finish."

The patient closed his gaping jaws.

"You also had massive internal injuries. Your condition was diagnosed as extremely critical and you were not expected to live through the night. Being a civil servant in terminal condition, you qualified to be referred here. We reviewed your file and found you to be a perfect candidate for the BRCP…the Bionic Replacement Components Program. So you were flown here in a United States Air Force jet. You were barely clinging to life upon your arrival. We placed you on total life support and started operating immediately. The first procedure began at 6:00 AM on a Saturday. The surgery lasted until noon the following Thursday. That was four and a half weeks a—"

"—**WHA-AT?**" Kelly could no longer contain himself. He snapped bolt upright on the bed and stared at the doctor in complete and utter **dis**belief.

Wells nodded. "You've been in a drug-induced coma since the accident," he continued, and once again eased his understandably antsy patient back down on his hospital bed. "Your own skeletal system was virtually abolished by the fall. We, uh…replaced all necessary bone structures with stainless steel and titanium counterparts.

Soft tissue damages—such as torn muscle and cartilage—were resolved by installing flexible bio-hydraulic components.

Destroyed nerve endings were rerouted onto LCD and FEZ receptors.

Your cardio vascular and other arterial circulatory systems were also rerouted.

Damaged skin tissue was replaced by a new synthetic substance being utilized on severe burn victims." Seeing that his patient's mustached face was now white with shock, the doctor took a moment to flash the stunned fellow a reassuring smile. "Of course, your mental and digestive processes are still **biotic**. Only your _skeletal and muscular_ systems are **bionic**." The physician stood there, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Mr. Kelly, you _a-are_ **bionic**…That means you are _truly_ a human **cyborg**…a **cyb**ernetic **org**anism."

His patient was no longer paying attention. Chet was just lying there, gazing dazedly off into space. He was—literally—stunned out of his gourd!

Wells flashed the fireman a sympathetic smile and stepped over to a phone on the wall. The doctor dialed a number from memory. "Hello, Jaime! Rudy, here…Yes…The, uh, patient could really use a couple of visitors right now…Splendid!" He hung up and flashed the poor zombie-like fellow another sympathetic smile. "It's understandable that you should find this all so…overwhelming. Sadly, some of our patients never do 'adjust'. But we want **you** to adjust to the 'new' you, as quickly as possible! We want you to go back to living a _relatively _normal life. We can begin by having you meet some very _special_ visitors…"

Almost as if on cue, the door to the room Kelly was in opened and a beautiful young lady with long, blonde hair entered.

A handsome German Shepherd dog followed closely on her heels.

The woman flashed the fireman a smile that melted his stainless steel counterparts down to nothing. "Hi, Chet! My name's Jaime…" she cheerfully introduced. "Jaime Sommers." She motioned to the dog. "And this is Max. Max and I are here to help you 'adjust'."

Chet gradually snapped out of his trance and gazed dreamily up at his stunning visitor. He returned the woman's smile—with interest, and extended a hand. 'Things are looking up!' he suddenly realized. "Nice to meet you, Jaime."

* * *

Miss Jaime Sommers visited with the fireman for over an hour. During that time, the woman filled the fireman in on her and Max's backgrounds.

She explained that she had previously been a Tennis Pro.

One fateful day, while skydiving, her parachute failed to deploy properly. Jaime joked that, while she wasn't hurt in the _fall_, the _landing_ had damaged both of her legs, her right arm and her right ear—beyond repair.

The two of them had a great deal in common. They were both cybernetic organisms. Actually, all three of them were. Maximillion the dog—Max—was also **bionic**.

The woman went on to inform the fireman that she now works as a school teacher/secret agent for the OSI—the Office of Scientific Investigations.

Wells joined in the conversation and Kelly was given a complete briefing on the Government's **Top Secret** _Bionic Replacement Components Program_. He was told that the 'new' him cost the American taxpayers close to 10.5 million dollars. Of course, nobody expected the fireman to repay the USA in a _monetary_ way. Instead, Kelly would be called upon—from time to time—to perform certain 'special services' for his country. Otherwise, it was to be life as usual.

It was drummed into Chet that he must NEVER allow **anyone** to EVER learn of his bionic abilities!

It was also stressed that he must return to the Center for periodic overhauls and adjustments.

Chet was given dozens of tests and examinations.

Finally, the Center's scientists determined that Kelly's condition was stable enough to allow him to leave his hospital bed.

* * *

Jamie and Max took Chet down to an obstacle course that had been set up in the building's basement. The purpose of the trip to the gymnasium sized subterranean room, was to help the fireman learn how to control his new _bionic_ limbs—and _superhuman_ strength!

Jaime and Max showed Chet their 'stuff'…bending steal bars…lifting enormous weights…making amazing leaps and bounds seem effortless!

Kelly just stood there, looking completely stupefied.

"C'mon, Chet!" Jaime encouraged. "Try it!" The woman made a twenty-foot leap through the air to clear one of the course's obstacles.

Chet looked terribly uncomfortable and shook his head.

Jaime jumped over to him and took him by the hand. "I know it's scary. I also know that you **can** do it!"

Kelly began looking around for a 'smaller' obstacle. "I think I'll start small…and work my way up from there," he decided and attempted to jump over Jaime's dog. He cleared Max, by more than fifteen feet, and almost crashed into one of the 'bigger' obstacles.

Jaime couldn't help herself. She just had to laugh.

The woman quickly regained her composure and went bounding up to the fireman, who was looking a little hurt—and like he'd just lost what little confidence he may have had. "I'm sorry, Chet. It's just that you reminded me of ME, when **I** first came down here." She took the gentleman's hand back into hers. "I was the first _human_ recipient of bionic components." She motioned for the dog to come to her and he did. She stooped down to the pooch's level and he rested his head on her knee. "Max, here, was the only one around to help _me_ adjust." She gave her helper an affectionate hug and then stood. "There are over fourteen of us now. So we don't have to feel so…_alone_." Jaime flashed the fireman another megawatt smile. "C'mon…I'll help you…"

Chet mustered up a half-hearted smile and allowed her to drag him over to the start of the obstacle course.

* * *

Four—fantastically fun-filled—hours later…

Kelly was clearing the obstacles with one effortless bound after another. He leapt the last one, did a mid-air somersault and landed, a little shakily, right in front of Jaime and Max's feet.

The pretty young woman applauded him. "Oh-oh, getting cocky, are we?"

Chet grinned. "This is _great_! This is really wild! And I'm not even the least bit tired!"

The two _human_ cyborgs hugged.

"Thanks for showing me the 'ropes', Jaime…" Chet glanced down at the dog. "You, too, Max."

"It was our pleasure, Chet!" the woman assured him.

Kelly suddenly felt a bit scared again. "Jaime, has there ever been a time…when you wished THEY…would have just let you…die?"

The woman's eyes glistened with tears and she nodded. "All the time…at first. But you'll get over it. **I **did!"

The fireman managed a brave smile.

The pretty lady pulled him back into a hug. "Promise you'll call me…when the going gets rough…okay?"

"I promise," Chet solemnly replied.

"I wanna be there for you…to help see you through the tough times. I want you to know that you will never have to face all this _alone_."

Kelly's eyes glistened, this time. "Thanks, Jaime."

Jaime pulled back and planted a light kiss on the gloomy gentleman's cheek. "You're welcome! Now, c'mon! We don't have much time, and there are still a few 'wrinkles' we need to get _ironed out_."

* * *

Chet was directed to Dr. Wells' office, later that evening, and handed a one-way plane ticket to LA. He stared down at the thing in confusion. "I don't get it. What's the rush? I mean, I don't think I'm ready to go back yet. I'm just not 'used' to all thi—"

"—That's a risk we're just going to have to take," the doctor interrupted. "We don't know how he managed to do it, but one of your friends has tracked you down."

"_Tracked_ me down, huh? It's gotta be _Gage_!"

"We feel it's best if _you_ return to LA, before **he** shows up here—asking questions."

Chet accepted the doctor's explanation for his sudden departure plans and smiled. "Wait til the guys get a load a' _this_!" he declared, and motioned to the 'new and improved' _him_.

"**Mister Kelly!**" Wells leapt to his feet and then stood there, looking _extremely_ alarmed. "**No one** must EVER learn of your _bionic_ abilities! This program is a _classified_ **TOP SECRET**! Remember? Only those DIRECTLY involved, that is, the _doctors_ and _patients_, are **ever** to know of its existence! The Government has given this program's **SECRECY** _top_ priority! We thought you understood that!"

"Yeah. But my friends were _right there_! They _already_ **know** how badly I was hurt! How am I supposed to explain my rapid—and miraculous—recovery to THEM?"

"That's all been taken care of," the doctor assured him. "All of your accident records, x-rays, medical charts and other information pertaining to your case have been…_misplaced_."

"Fine! But what about my FRIENDS? _They_ were THERE! Gage and DeSoto are **paramedics**, for cryin' out loud! Trust me! _Those two_ **know** how 'critical' my condition was!"

"Without proof, they'll just have to assume they were mistaken…that they 'misjudged' the seriousness of your injuries."

Kelly's shoulders sagged in defeat.

Wells started heading for the doorway. "C'mon! I'll drive you to the airport."

**TBC**

**Author's note:** Yeah. Yeah. I know. I know. Chet wasn't _directly _exposed to the DMCST.

But Kelly doesn't **need** to come into contact with some hallucinatory toxic substance in order to have a really wild dream. :D

This is **Chet Kelly** we're talkin' about here! Chet **always** has _really wild_ dreams! LOL!

Also, my muse has decided that Chet's just too much _fun_ to NOT play with…Besides, Kelly **is** taking a LOT of _very_ **potent** pain medication…

*snicker, snicker…snort*****


	24. Chapter 24

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Early the following morning, at LA County Fire Station 51…

Kelly strolled across the parking bay and up to the open doorway to the locker room.

The men on the Station's A-Shift crew were seated on the benches in front of their lockers, changing from street-clothes to uniforms.

"How'd you find _that_ out?" DeSoto was asking his partner.

"Well," Gage rose to his feet and started tucking his uniform's shirttails in, "I checked with the FAC. They gave me a record of all the flight plans that were logged the night of the accident. I just went through them…and kept eliminating them…one at a time. The only one filed around the time of his disappearance, was an Air Force jet, scheduled non-stop, to Boston International. Then, I started calling Boston City ambulance services. One of the driver's for South Boston Emergency Transport remembered meeting the jet at the airport and transporting a critical patient to Graham's Medical Center."

His shiftmates were impressed, and impatient.

"Well?…Was he there?"

"Did you find him?"

"How is he?"

John sighed. "I called the Center. They denied that he was ever taken there."

Their Captain's patience had also been taxed to its max. "Well, then…**where the **_**hell**_** is he?**"

"I don't know, Cap…" Gage regrettably replied. "But, if he _was_ taken to that Center," he pulled an airline ticket from the top shelf of his locker and waved it through the air, "I'm gonna find out!" He stashed the ticket back onto the shelf, stuck his right foot up on the bench and bent down to tie his bootlace. "My flight leaves, just as soon as this shift is—" he glanced up at his partner and caught sight of Chet Kelly's moustached face, peering through the open portal behind him. The paramedic's mouth stopped moving…and his heart…and his lungs. He pulled so hard on his laces, one of them snapped. He lost his balance and fell backward, into his locker. John got his feet, heartbeat and breath back and then stood there in a state of absolute shock.

The rest of the guys turned to the doorway to see what their stunned shiftmate was staring at.

Kelly noted that the entire crew now appeared to be in a state of total shock.

Hank was the first to find his voice. "**Chester B.?**"

"Hey, Cap!" Chet cheerfully said, and finally entered the room. "Hey, guys!"

The 'guys' examined their friend from head to toe and then turned to stare at one another in complete confusion.

Stanley stepped up to the formerly missing fireman. "Are you all right? Where have you been? It's been over a month…" Hank's words trailed off and he just stood there, looking astounded.

The men all gathered 'round their fellow crewmate.

Well, everybody but Gage. John was still leaning up against his locker, for support, and muttering, "I don't believe it…I don't believe it…I don't believe it…"

Kelly drew a deep breath and stepped up to him. "Hey, Gage!" he greeted and extended a hand.

John numbly placed his right hand in Chet's.

Kelly gripped it firmly—a little too firmly.

The paramedic sucked in a breath, his face contorted in agony and he dropped to one knee.

Chet immediately released his grip. "Ah-ah, gee! I'm sorry, Johnny!"

Gage gasped and grabbed his right forearm. He glanced up, saw his friend's pitiful, repentant expression, and was forced to smile. "Ahhh, forget it!" he urged, as his partner pulled him up off the floor. "I'm so glad to see you, I hardly notice the intense, incredible, excruciating pain radiating up my wrist," he stopped teasing and broke into a broad grin. "Chet, you old son of a gun! What are you doing here? Where have you been? We couldn't find out _anything_—except that you were _alive_…" his words trailed off and he gave his chum a ridiculously light tap on the arm. "Gosh, it's good to see you!"

The rest of the guys agreed and gave Chet equally _careful_ 'Welcome Back!' greetings. They acted as though Kelly might crumble, if they touched him too hard.

Chet saw that his friends were waiting expectantly for some answers. Ever since he'd left Boston, he'd been racking his brain for a good believable lie to tell them. He still hadn't come up with one. 'I'll just have to tell them the truth,' he realized. 'Up to a point…' He cleared his throat. "We-ell, after the accident, I was flown to a hospital in Boston, where some of the best doctors in the country examined me. They operated and put me back together again as good as new. Maybe even _better_!" he hinted.

Gage rubbed his sore right hand over his face and blinked. "How could they? Chet, **I** was one of the guys who scraped you up off that refinery floor. I _know_ how badly you were injured—massive internal bleeding, multiple compound fractures. _If_ you lived, it was going to take you at least a year to—" he stopped talking and glanced around the room at his shiftmates. "What am I saying?" He turned back to Kelly and flashed him another grin. "You obviously _are_ alive, and it obviously _didn't_ take a year!" He gave his recuperated pal a tentative tap on the arm again and looked tremendously pleased.

Everybody looked pleased.

Especially Chet. "It's great to be back!"

"Feels like you're getting your strength back," John understated and stood there, rubbing his aching right appendage. "Any idea how long it's gonna be before you can come back to work?"

Kelly nodded. "Today!"

His friends' jaws dropped open, as they were absolutely astounded once again.

Gage managed a nervous chuckle. "You're jokin'. Right?"

Chet shook his head.

His Captain blinked and squinted and nervously cleared his throat. "You _positive_ about that, pal?"

Kelly nodded again. "The powers that be told me to report to work on A-shift…_today_."

His shiftmates stared disbelievingly at one another.

"Headquarters must've screwed up somehow," Hank reasoned. "I think I'd better make a phone call." The Captain spun on his heels and started heading for the phone in his office.

Kelly strolled over to his locker and started changing into his uniform.

Gage managed another nervous chuckle. "Chet, when that car hit me, it took **me** _two months_! And **I** wasn't busted up _near_ as bad as **you**!"

Kelly saw his crewmates were all nodding, thoughtfully. "Yea-eah. But it turns out that I wasn't busted up near as bad as everybody thought," he lied.

John's jaw dropped—again.

"Besides," Kelly continued, "we Irish are just naturally _fast_ healers!"

The guys all turned to give Gage questioning glances.

The paramedic appeared positively stumped. "So-o," he shrugged, "I...guess I made a _mistake_," he numbly announced, and stood there, feeling terribly unsure of himself.

The Station's tones sounded.

Gage held up his busted lace. "Anybody got an extra pair?"

His partner pulled a small plastic-wrapped package from the top shelf of his locker and tossed it to him.

"Thanks!"

Everybody began filing from the room.

* * *

"**Station 51…Officer reports child trapped on a roof at 1411 West Noble…One-four-one-one West Noble…Cross-streets Dane and Atkinson…Officer advises you approach the scene non-Code R…Time out…07:58**"

"Station 51. KMG-365," Stanley responded and replaced the mic'. He turned to pass his paramedics their copy of the call slip. "Headquarters tells me it's on the level," he said, upon noting their questioning stares. Then he hurried over to the Engine and climbed up into the cab, beside Stoker.

* * *

"Let's go, Michael!"

Michael and Marco stared at their Captain in disbelief.

Hank simply shrugged. "It's great to have _you_ back aboard, Chet!" he called over his shoulder.

Kelly forced a half-hearted smile. "Thanks, Cap!"

It just didn't feel 'right'. _None of this_ felt 'right'.

"What do THEY know about _friends_?" Chet grumbled beneath his breath.

**TBC**


	25. Chapter 25

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Just six minutes later, the crew of Station 51 arrived—quietly—at the call site.

"Thanks for not using your sirens, fellahs!" Officer Howard greeted the men, as they scrambled from their fire trucks.

It was threatening rain, upon their arrival. So, prior to pulling the compartment containing their security belts—and coiled ropes—open, Gage and DeSoto took a moment or two to toss their turnout coats on.

"Ke—Stoker, Lopez! Grab an extension ladder!" Stanley ordered. "What do we got, Vince?" the fire officer inquired, as he and his paramedics were escorted around the two-storied home and into a fenced in backyard.

"We can handle it, Chet!" Mike informed their friend, when he tried to help with the ladder.

Chet frowned and hurried off, to catch up with his Captain.

* * *

Kelly reached the rear of the house and found his fearless leader.

All four men were standing on the back patio, staring up at the two-storied home's shingled roof.

A little four or five-year-old boy was perched upon the roof, precariously close to its rain-guttered edge.

DeSoto's attention was suddenly diverted, as his partner took off, bolting through the back door and into the house. Roy finished fastening his security belt and went running in after him.

"The sitter was changing his baby sister's 'poopy' diaper," Vince informed the two remaining firemen. "She opened the window, to 'air out' the room. She ran out of 'wipes' and went to get some more. Claims she was only gone for a minute or two." The policeman pointed to the thirty-foot TV tower that ran up the back of the building—and alongside of the open window. "He apparently used the antenna to get to the roof."

The three men watched Gage climb out the same open window and then begin to scale the TV tower, too. Suddenly, water droplets began pelting their upturned faces.

The little boy started to squirm.

They were running out of time!

Stanley went racing back around the east end of the building, and began barking out orders.

* * *

Chet slipped away, to the opposite side of the house. He scanned the area, carefully, to make sure nobody was watching. Then he crouched down and jumped up—with all of his bionic ability.

Kelly landed right at the peak of the roof and grabbed onto it, to keep from sliding off—backwards. He dropped below the peak and peered out over the rooftop.

* * *

Gage had clipped himself to the TV antenna, and was currently talking to the kid. "No, Joey!" John pleaded. "Just stay still! It's only a little rain. You must be a pretty brave boy, to come up here all by yourself. No-ow…you're not gonna let a few little raindrops scare you, are you…"

The child obediently stopped squirming about.

However, before his paramedic friend could even exhale a sigh of relief, the clouds opened up, and it _really_ started pouring!

Joey might not have been afraid of a _few_ raindrops, but a torrential downpour was an entirely different matter! The kid started to cry and began crawling towards the antenna.

"No, Joey!" the paramedic continued to plead. "You mustn't move! We're gonna come and get you!"

The kid might've stopped moving around again, if a bolt of lightning hadn't flashed overhead just then—closely followed by a positively ear-drum-shattering '_CLA-AP_!' of crashing thunder!

"Johnny, wait!" Roy called out, as his partner suddenly unclipped himself from the antenna. "You're not tied off!"

"Can't!" Johnny shouted back. "The kid's freakin' out! He's gonna fall!"

* * *

Chet watched John scramble along the slippery roof.

Just as Joey was about to slide over the edge, Gage made a frantic grab for the falling boy's wrist. The fireman's fingers tightened around it—and held. Unfortunately, the shingles were too slick with rain, and the rescuer felt himself sliding toward the edge of the roof, too. John's left hand caught the copper eave trough and he hung onto it—for dear life!

Kelly scrambled up over the peak and then slid down to the dangling pair's position. He grabbed a hold of the collar of Gage's turnout coat—just as the rain gutter was about to give way. The combined weight of his burdens threatened to pull Chet over the edge, as well. So he stomped the heel of his right foot down, in an attempt to 'dig in', and stop his slide. The fireman's eyes widened with surprise, as the sole of his boot broke right through the roof. 'This whole 'bionic' business is definitely going to take some getting used to!' he mused. Then he leaned back and _carefully_ braced himself. "Quit jerkin' around! Will yah?" he requested of his squirming captive.

John was being strangled by his turnout coat. "Che-et!" he croaked, through a crushed windpipe. "Let go! Or you'll go over, too!"

Chet just sat there, in the pouring rain, holding onto his chum's collar with _one_ hand. "Don't worry about **me**, Gage," he advised, sounding a bit bored. "Just pray the snaps don't crap out on your coat!" Kelly heard a commotion and glanced back over his shoulder.

Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker were crawling along the peak of the roof. The two men fastened some lifelines to the home's chimney and then started sliding down to where Chet sat…calmly—and effortlessly—keeping a tight grip on Gage's coat collar.

John could feel himself growing light-headed, from a lack of oxygen. His bruised right hand was still locked around the squirming kid's wrist. He felt his grip begin to slip. The child's wrist was wet, and his hand was still extremely sore, from Kelly's bruising handshake. He grew even dizzier and started reaching for his crushed windpipe with his free left hand. Someone latched onto his left wrist and the stranglehold on his throat was released. Gage grimaced and gasped as he was spun around and pulled up onto the roof again.

The sobbing boy was hoisted up and the paramedic's vice-like grip on the kid's wrist was pried free.

John clutched his aching right hand to his chest and leaned back against the steeply sloping roof, to exhale a lo-ong, loud sigh of relief.

Kelly crawled over to his collapsed coworker. "You okay, Johnny?"

Johnny forced his eyes open and squinted up through the falling rain. Chet was staring down at him, looking rather worried. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay. Thanks to you!" the paramedic replied, with a grateful grin.

Chet smiled back and gave his chum a playful slug in the arm.

"Ou-ouch!" Gage cried out in agony, and made a frantic grab for his pained appendage. "What'd yah do _that_ for?" he demanded, and continued to rub his latest bruise.

Kelly cringed and looked extremely apologetic. "Sorry, man."

* * *

Stoker started down the ladder, with the little boy.

Stanley saw his Engineer off—er, down and then carefully made his way back across the rain-slick roof.

* * *

John just lay there, in the pouring rain, shaking his head. "I'm **glad** I was wrong about your medical condition, Chet. I _really_ am! I just don't understand how I could've be so-o-o _terribly_ wrong," the paramedic concluded, sounding even more unsure of himself.

"You two all right?" their Captain asked, and saved Kelly from having to comment.

Kelly nodded, glumly.

"Yeah, Cap. I'm okay." Gage gave his mustached rescuer another grateful grin. "But it's a good thing ole Chet got here, when he did!"

Stanley was staring down at the foot-shaped hole in the soggy roof. "Ye-es," he dazedly admitted. "It certainly i-is…" His gaze gradually shifted to good 'ole Chet'.

Kelly avoided his Captain's eyes. He and Gage latched onto the lifelines and started to climb up toward the chimney.

"Hold it!" Hank called after the departing pair.

The duo obediently halted.

The Captain aimed his shrewd gaze at his mustached crewmember, once again. "We could probably get down a _lot_ faster, if we follow 'ole Chet', here…"

'You have no idea,' Kelly silently concurred.

Their Captain cocked one of his bushy eyebrows. "How 'bout it, Chester? You wanna take _us_ **down**—the same way _you_ came **up**?"

Kelly could just picture himself, placing one man under each of his bionic arms, and jumping effortlessly to the ground. Then again, on account of his sworn promise to _keep_ the government's TOP SECRET program a secret, he couldn't picture it. "I want to," he truthfully replied. "But I can't." That said, he started pulling himself back up to the peak of the slippery, steeply sloped roof.

John turned to his Captain, for an explanation.

Stanley looked completely stumped…and shrugged.

* * *

Marco watched, incredulously, as Chet Kelly came down the ladder. A truly remarkable feat—considering he never went up it!

John and the Cap' climbed down, too.

Stanley started strolling over to their Engine.

Gage stepped up to his partner, who was busy examining the boy they'd just rescued from the roof.

Lopez released the ladder he'd been bracing and crossed over to Kelly. "How'd you do that?"

Stoker directed his attention to Chet, and stood there, looking equally curious.

Kelly saw that his comrades were waiting, patiently, for an explanation. "I…uh-uh…went around to the other side of the house…"

"—A-and?" Lopez prompted.

"A-and I _jumped_!"

Kelly's crewmates had been expecting to hear a _believable_ explanation. When they failed to get one, they gave their BS'ing buddy a pair of annoyed glares. The duo got the ladder down and then began carting it back over to their truck, all the while looking like they felt—completely disgusted.

Kelly spotted Gage and DeSoto and started heading their way. At least _they_ were still talking to him.

* * *

Joey's mother had returned home. The lady was currently cradling her crying child in her arms. "Do you think I should take him to our pediatrician?"

John removed the ped's cuff from the kid's arm and tussled the sobbing boy's sopping wet hair. "I think you should take him in out of the rain," he teased and flashed the concerned young woman a reassuring smile. "I don't think Joey really needs to see a doctor—" the paramedic stopped speaking and his smile did a vanishing act, as something suddenly occurred to him. "Bu-ut you should probably get a _doctor_'s opinion on that, Mrs. Wittinger. I've been _wrong_ before…" he confessed, his quiet words filled with sadness.

DeSoto watched, in dismay, as his dejected partner began walking off, in the direction of their rescue squad. He and Kelly exchanged a couple of concerned glances. The paramedic then picked up their remaining equipment cases and followed after his discouraged friend.

Chet gasped—in complete and utter exasperation. 'I didn't _ask_ them to tell me about their precious 'secret' program! I don't care what THEY say! I've GOTTA tell Gage!' he silently resolved, and began heading for the Squad, himself. "Hey! John! Wait up!"

Gage closed one of their truck's side compartments and turned to face him.

Just then, the Squad's dash-mounted radio sounded an alarm. "**Station 51…**"

Apparently, their Captain had cleared them.

Speaking of their Captain…

"Kelly!" Stanley shouted. "C'mon! We just got another call!"

Chet gave John a slight shrug and went trotting over to _his_ fire truck.

* * *

Kelly climbed up into the Engine and plunked his soggy self down beside Lopez.

Marco gave him a grumpy glare and turned to stare out his window.

Chet managed a weary sigh and turned to gaze out his window, as well. 'Oh, this is just **great**!' he sarcastically—and silently—realized. 'First, Gage loses all his confidence! And now, _these_ guys don't **trust** me anymore!' Well, now, that just wouldn't do. That would **never** do!

**TBC**


	26. Chapter 26

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Within a matter of minutes, Station 51 arrived at their next call site: a three-vehicle accident—with injuries.

The firemen piled out of their respective trucks and back out into the pouring rain.

Being as how their company was 'first in', Captain Stanley took a few moments to size up the situation, before issuing any orders to his engine crew. "Kelly! Grab a reel line and start hosing down these gas leaks! Stoker, Lopez! Break out our extrication equipment! We're gonna need pry bars, the Ajax, the Porta-Power, the Jaws—the works!"

His men nodded and immediately went to work.

His paramedics didn't need to wait for his instructions. The pair had already started triaging crash victims.

Kelly hauled a reel line over to the two vehicles with ruptured gas tanks and then waited for Stoker to signal that Engine 51's pump was primed. He got the 'go ahead' and then began helping Mother Nature dilute the spilled fuel.

"My windshield wipers just stopped working!" one of the drivers involved in the accident told a police officer. "I couldn't see the other cars! Honest! I couldn't see a thing!"

Chet gave the poor guy a sympathetic glance. He looked back towards the car he was currently spraying beneath, and saw DeSoto tugging on one of the vehicle's crumpled doors.

Roy couldn't get the jammed portal to open. He swiped the window clear and peered inside the vehicle. "We've got two people trapped in here!" the frustrated fireman informed his partner, before moving on to the next wrecked car.

John acknowledged his friend's discovery with a grim nod. Then he picked up the handset of their bio-phone and passed along the vitals of the victim he was currently assessing.

Suddenly, Kelly noticed that the engine compartment of the car with the two trapped people inside was smoldering. Once again, they were running out of time! He saw that Mike and Marco were busy opening up another vehicle with victims wedged inside. He glanced cautiously around and saw that the coast was clear. So he latched onto the handle of the jammed door and pulled. The stuck portal didn't budge, but its handle came off. The rescuer went flying backwards…and ended up crashing into—and onto—Gage.

John grimaced and gasped, as 'somebody' suddenly struck him—very forcefully—from behind. The crouched paramedic was catapulted forward and ended up being crushed between that person and their open radio. Gage gasped again, as his lower back bore the brunt of his tackler's weight—and his right ribcage made contact with one of the extremely hard corner's of their Bio-phone's case.

Kelly quickly scrambled to his feet and then helped the now non-breathing paramedic up onto his knees. He gave his grimacing shift-mate a 'Please forgive me?' look.

"I know," John gasped, when he finally got his breath back. "You're…_sorry_...right?"

Chet managed a sheepish nod. He gave Gage one last apologetic look and then hurried back over to the stubborn car door. He smashed the window in with the broken handle, gripped the door with both of his gloved hands, and pulled. The twisted metal groaned and the jammed door gave way. Kelly looked extremely pleased. He picked his dropped line back up and began hosing the leaking gas down, again.

Roy came trotting up just then. He'd brought a couple of backboards—and Marco and a pry bar—along with him. The paramedic saw the 'already opened' car door and turned to his partner.

Johnny was still crouched beside their open Bio-phone, massaging his lower back with one hand, and rubbing his right ribcage with the other.

DeSoto stood there, looking both puzzled…and impressed.

Gage got stiffly to his feet and began stumbling over to their Squad. "We're gonna need…some more traction splints," he breathlessly explained.

Roy gave his partner a respectful nod, and then went to work.

"Kelly!" Station 51's commander suddenly called out. "Give us a hand on this pry bar, pal!"

Chet hurried over to the front of the vehicle Roy was working in, to help his Captain and crewmate.

The two men were attempting to pry the car's crumpled hood up, so that the smoldering fire in its engine compartment could be accessed and extinguished.

Kelly set his reel line down and threw his weight into the bar.

Their pry bar gave, but the car's hood didn't.

Stanley and Lopez stood there, staring down at the bow-shaped steel bar in their hands, wearing looks of utter amazement.

"Obviously defective!" Kelly quickly determined, sounding rather disgusted. "This is gonna require some hydraulics. I'll go see if Mike's through with the Ajax!" he volunteered and immediately made himself scarce.

* * *

Twenty minutes later…following the arrival of another fire company and two additional squads…

All accident victims had been extricated and loaded into the backs of waiting ambulances.

Chet watched as Roy attempted to pass his partner a couple of equipment cases.

John declined to accept them. "I'll, uh, bring the Squad," he offered instead, and then went limping off, before his paramedic friend could protest.

DeSoto gave his rapidly disappearing partner's back a deeply concerned look and reluctantly climbed up into the back of the last ambulance.

Their Captain closed the vehicle's back doors and it sped off, lights flashing and siren blaring.

Kelly followed Gage over to the Squad.

* * *

"Will they be all right?" the driver who had caused the crash anxiously inquired, as he approached the only paramedic remaining on the scene.

The fireman tossed the last of their equipment cases into the Squad's side compartments and then turned to his questioner. John just stood there in the falling rain for a few moments, looking extremely solemn—and sad. "I'm not really qualified to comment on that," he quietly replied. "But Rampart has some of the _finest_ doctors in the country," he forced himself to continue, and even managed to muster up an encouraging smile. "They'll be receiving the _best_ care possible."

The remorseful man gave the firefighter a grateful nod.

"The very next chance I get!" Chet vowed—aloud—as the paramedic climbed stiffly up into the Squad and started driving off. The remaining fireman suddenly realized that he was not alone. He slowly turned his helmeted head.

Marco was standing there, in the steady drizzle, giving him a strange, suspicious stare. "Cap' told me to tell you—we're leaving," he coolly declared. Upon delivering his message—as ordered—Lopez promptly spun on his heels and then headed back over to their firetruck.

Kelly couldn't help but notice his chum's 'icy', 'distrustful' attitude toward him. The forlorn fireman heaved a heavy sigh—of both frustration and surrender. That did it! "What do THEY know about the _bonds of brotherhood_?!" he angrily shouted out—for **all** to hear. "What do THEY know about _honesty_—and _trust_?!" he continued to rant and started stomping his way over to where Engine 51 was parked. "Who are THEY to tell ME that **I** gotta **lie** to _my friends_?!" He stomped right up to Stoker, who had been attempting—unsuccessfully—to straighten out their bow-shaped pry bar. Chet snatched the tool from the Engineer's hands and effortlessly **un**bent the bowed bar. He passed the straightened object to his Captain and then climbed quickly up into his seat. "C'mon!" he urged. "Let's get back to the Station! I have something I hafta—er, _wanna_ tell you guys!"

Stanley stood there, staring down at the solid steel bar in his hands. "I'll just bet you do!"

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Mike Stoker backed his beloved Engine into its parking bay at Station 51.

"So you see," Kelly spoke, over the loud _'hissing'_ of the truck's airbrakes, "I must ask that you **never** EVER tell another living soul what I am about to tell yous."

His three companions exhaled exasperated sighs.

"Che-et!" Marco exclaimed, giving voice to their growing impatience. "What do you want us to do? We've already promised you _three_ times! Now…you either trust us…or you don't."

Stanley and Stoker swung around in their leather seats to face Kelly, and then all three men sat there, waiting expectantly.

Chet flashed each of his friends—er, _brothers_ an affectionate smile. "I trust yous!"

"Well then, _out with it, _already!" his Captain prompted.

"Okay." Kelly climbed down from the Engine. "C'mon!" he urged. "This is somethin' that has to be _seen_ to be believed!"

His fellow firefighters climbed down and then followed him across the garage and out the back door.

* * *

Stanley and his men stood there in the Station's back parking lot, in the pouring rain, looking both impatient and upset to be getting re-wet.

Kelly glanced around, to make certain no one else was watching. "John _wasn't_ mistaken about my medical condition after the fall."

His audience's looks of utter disbelief were closely followed by looks of complete confusion.

"Now, I can't give you all of the details. But I want you to know that, if they hadn't a' done what they did…I'd be _dead_."

His Captain arched an eyebrow. "What did they did—er, do?"

"This!" Chet replied and proceeded to make several effortless bounds around the lot, clearing three of their cars by better than twenty feet. "And this!" he added, stepping up to the Gage's vehicle. He gripped the truck's bumper with one hand and picked the Rover's front end right up off of the pavement. Chet set the car down and then leapt back over to his friends, who now appeared to be in a state of _shock_. Kelly stood there in silence for a few moments, waiting for somebody to comment on what they'd just witnessed.

But his audience remained too stunned to move or speak.

"Hey? You guys okay?" Kelly inquired, his words filled with worry.

His Captain finally managed to get his mouth to work. "How—how'd you **do** that?"

"They replaced my broken arms and legs with these 'bionic' components," Kelly explained and proffered two of his _new and improved_ limbs for their inspection.

His audience reflexively retreated.

Chet saw his fellow firefighters step back from him, in fear. "I'm sorry," he apologized, the emotional pain evident in his voice. The forlorn fireman's extended arms dropped limply to his sides. "I would **never** hurt you guys in a _million years_…"

His audience exchanged solemn glances and promptly stepped forward.

Stanley draped an arm across Kelly's soggy, slumped shoulders. "**We're** the ones who are sorry, pal!"

Stoker and Lopez nodded.

"We didn't _mean_ to be such...jerks," his Captain assured him. "It's just—" Stanley struggled for the right words, "—this is all so-o…gosh-darn **un**believable! We just don't know _what_ to make of _any_ of this…"

Chet flashed his friends a bitter smile. "Trust me. You're not alone."

The four firemen heard the garage door grinding open.

Two doors slammed and then DeSoto's exasperated voice filled the Station. "Johnny? Will yah listen to me? I'm tellin' yah, you're **not** 'losing your mind'! There's gotta be a perfectly _logical_ explana—"

A third door slammed, drowning out the remainder of Roy's comment.

The Engine Crew watched as John's partner came striding across the parking lot, looking extremely flustered.

"He's quitting!" DeSoto bitterly declared.

The Captain appeared to be as stunned by _this_ news, as he had by Kelly's. "Wha-at?!"

Roy nodded. "He says he can't possibly understand how he could have been so drastically mistaken—unless he's losing his mind! I told him that he should talk to Dr. Tyler—"

"—But Dr. Tyler doesn't work at Rampart anymore," Chet interrupted. "And nobody knows where he is. Right?"

DeSoto's bare head bobbed again. "He says he didn't _think_ he was wrong at the time. He _wished_ he was wrong, but he never dreamt—for a moment—that he could ever make such an obvious error in judgment. So I suggested that he ask Dr. Brackett to check the x-rays and medical recor—"

"—But there are no x-rays or medical records," Kelly interjected, looking and sounding rather sad.

Roy gave the seemingly 'clairvoyant' fireman another nod. "Without any evidence to the contrary, he's convinced himself that he _must_ be _losing his mind_. He figures that maybe he's just been working too hard and that he's starting to imagine things. Now, he's afraid! So he claims he's quitting—before he can make any _more_ mistak—"

"—He wasn't mistaken about _anything_," Kelly interrupted, again. "My x-rays and medical records are in Boston—along with Dr. Tyler, who now works at Grahams Medical Center…" his soft-spoken words trailed off entirely. "Where is he?" he asked, and stared the quitting paramedic's partner square in his troubled blue eyes.

Roy couldn't've looked anymore confused if he'd tried. "Uh-uh, the washroom," he numbly replied. "The stall door's locked!" he added, as the Irishman started heading for the garage.

"Not for lo-ong…" their Captain quietly predicted.

* * *

Chet entered the washroom and stepped right up to the locked stall door. "Gage? C'mon! Open the door! I have to talk to you!"

Gage groaned and gasped in frustration. "I don't really feel like talking right now."

"_You_ don't have to talk. _I'll _do all the talking. You just listen."

There was a long silence.

It was Kelly's turn to gasp in frustration. "C'mon! _Out_ of the john, John!"

"I'm listening…"

Chet reached up and gripped the top of the stall door. "I hope you're decent!" he warned and started tugging. The metal portal's hinge pins popped, and its lock bolt slid out of its slot in the door's metal frame. Kelly quickly set the thing aside.

Gage appeared. The toilet seat was down, the paramedic's pants were up—and his bottom jaw was hanging open.

There followed another long bout of stunned silence.

"How—how'd you **do** that?" the seated fireman finally managed to stutter.

Kelly completely ignored the question. "You weren't _wrong_ about my medical condition, back at that refinery."

"Of course not!" John calmly concurred, his voice oozing sarcasm. "I was absolutely _right_! I suppose _that's_ why you just busted that door down with _one_ hand, huh? Because your other arm is still a little weak, from only one month of recover—"

"—I thought you said you _didn't_ feel like talking?" Chet reminded him.

Gage closed his moving mouth and his sad eyes, and exhaled a couple of weary sighs.

Kelly appeared pleased and continued. "Didn't you ever wonder **why** I was smuggled out of Rampart…onto an airforce jet…and flown to a 'special' _government research hospital_—in Boston, Mass.?"

John's eyes instantly snapped back open. "THEY said that you needed some special treatment, or something…"

Chet suppressed a chuckle. "Oh-oh, THEY gave me a 'special treatment', all right!" he agreed, but then his cheery demeanor quickly turned somber. "And…I'd be **dead** right now, if they hadn't."

The paramedic cocked his head and gave his confusing friend a questioning stare.

Just as Chet opened his mouth to explain, the Station's alarm sounded.

"**Station 51…Truck 123…Battalion 14…Structure fire—**"

"I don't _believe_ this!" Kelly complained and turned to leave the latrine. The fireman halted, seeing that his buddy wasn't budging from his 'throne'. "C'mon, Gage!"

But John refused to leave the john. "You go ahead…"

"You're **not** 'losing your mind'!" Kelly stepped into the stall and latched onto his stalled friend's left wrist. "Now, C'mon! Get off the can, man!" he urged and began pulling the paramedic up off the potty seat and onto his feet. Upon hearing John cry out in agony, Chet halted and spun back around.

Gage was just standing there in the opened stall, looking extremely pale.

Kelly released the apparently _pained_ paramedic's left appendage and took a step or two back.

"Ahhh-uhhh!" Gage exclaimed with a grimace, when he finally got his breath back. "I think it's only a _sprain_," he diagnosed, following a brief, but thorough, exam of his 'latest' injured limb. The paramedic's calm look vanished and he completely lost his cool. "WHAT **IS** IT WITH YOU?! I'M ALL **_BLACK AND BLUE_**!"

Kelly cringed and looked terribly apologetic.

Their Captain called them into the garage just then, and saved him from having to comment.

Chet gave Johnny a sheepish look and then flashed him a persuasive smile.

Gage's grumpy look gradually vanished and he reluctantly began limping out of the latrine. "_Special treatment_, huh?"

Kelly's smile quickly graduated into a grin. "You have _no-o_ idea!" the 'bionic' fireman confidently stated, and followed his bruised buddy out into the garage.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Station 51 reached their latest call site in a little under four minutes.

The structure on fire turned out to be a local hardware store. Judging by all the smoke and flames that were visible, the single-storied brick building was already well involved.

* * *

The six firemen piled out of their rescue vehicles and began pulling on their air-packs.

Sirens continued to wail, as more and more apparatus arrived on the scene.

* * *

Chief McConike pulled up and parked his incident command car beside Squad 51. The fire officer then exited his vehicle and began barking out assignments. "Ben!" he shouted out to truck 123's Captain. "You and your boys, open up the roof!" Engine 14's crew was ordered to cover the building's rear exposures. Finally, Station 51 received its assignment. "Hank, have your guys grab some two and a half's, and cover the front!"

Stanley promptly passed the Chief's orders on to his engine crew.

* * *

Immediately upon their arrival, Squad 51's paramedics had begun treating several coughing people for mild smoke inhalation.

However, as soon as one of the store's evacuated customers had gotten her breath back, she had given the two firemen some rather alarming information.

The pair left the no longer coughing customers and went jogging up to their Captain.

* * *

"Cap," Roy began, sounding a bit breathless, himself, "we got a woman over there that claims the fire started in the 'painting supplies' aisle. She mentioned something about someone leaving an electric paint-peeler tool plugged in, and somebody else dropping a can of solvent. She claims the storeowner is still in there. She says the guy made sure that they all got out, but then he went back inside, to fight the fire."

Hank pulled the HT from his coat pocket. "Engine 51 to Battalion 14…"

"**McConike here. Go ahead, Hank…**"

"Chief, we have a report that the owner is still inside the store! We're going in!"

"**Roger that, Engine 51.** **I've already requested an additional squad. I also asked HQ to send a couple ambulances our way…**"

"Thanks, Chief! Engine 51 out." The Captain pocketed his radio and then turned back to his men. "All right! Let's go!"

The five firemen donned their air masks. Then they tossed their helmets back on and re-tightened their chinstraps.

Stoker charged their hose lines.

Kelly and Lopez manned the nozzles and led the rescue party into the burning building.

* * *

Inside the super-heated hardware store, visibility was down to zero—unless, of course, you were within three feet of the floor.

So the fireman crawled from empty aisle to empty aisle, conducting a quick, but thorough, sweep of the entire smoke—and flame—filled premises.

* * *

The searchers followed a trail of discarded dry chemical fire extinguishers down the 'painting supplies' aisle and found the shopkeeper huddled in a fetal position on the floor, within close proximity of open flames—too close.

The fire victim was coughing fitfully and seemed to be both dazed and disoriented. The poor man's unprotected lungs had apparently taken in a little too much of the store's _toxic_ atmosphere.

The man seemed oblivious of his rescuers' arrival, and, when John and Roy attempted to pull him further away from the fire, he quickly became both uncooperative and combative.

* * *

"Cap?" Kelly called back over his shoulder. "That guy must be _high on fumes_, or somethin'. Maybe I oughtta give 'em a hand…" he hinted.

Recalling how effortlessly he had raised John's Rover, the Captain patted his approval of Chet's proposal.

Chet handed his hose supporter the nozzle and scrambled over to where the paramedics were wrestling with the wild man.

* * *

Kelly locked onto the delirious guy's flailing wrists with his 'bionic' grip and pinned the wildly thrashing fellow to the floor.

The victim stopped struggling.

Thanks to Chet's superhuman strength, the guy didn't really have any _other_ choice.

Gage and DeSoto gave their _handy_ helper a pair of unseen grateful glances. Then they latched onto their submissive victim's perfectly limp limbs and began crawling back over to their friends with the fire hoses.

Chet followed along on all fours, as the two paramedics towed the storeowner off down the aisle, and away from the fire.

* * *

Speaking of the fire…

Behind them, near the end of the burning store aisle, the fire had heated the remaining shelves of paint solvents to their rupture point. The cans of volatile liquid exploded, sending flames streaking _everywhere_!

Station 51's firemen suddenly found themselves engulfed in an inferno.

Time was rapidly running out!

* * *

Speaking of running out…

Kelly quickly scrambled to his feet. He tossed the victim over his left shoulder and Roy over his right. Then he latched onto the back of John's coat collar, for the second time that shift, and began running toward the 'EXIT'.

Hank and Marco abandoned the hoses and raced off after their fleeing friend.

* * *

Chet exited the burning building and carefully placed his burdens down on the sidewalk.

Squad 36's paramedics immediately went to work on the fire victim.

Stanley and Lopez came stumbling out of the store and collapsed onto the sidewalk, beside _their_ two paramedics.

Kelly shoved his helmet back and whipped his air mask off. Then he stooped down in front of DeSoto and helped his friend remove his helmet and facemask, too. "You all right, Roy?"

Roy didn't reply. He just sat there, staring up at his _incredibly strong_ questioner, in stunned silence.

Chet gave up on getting an answer from him and turned to his partner. "What about you, John?" he pondered, and carefully removed the paramedic's helmet and facemask, so he could hear his reply. "You gonna be okay?"

His half-choked chum tugged his turnout coat away from his crushed windpipe and gave him a look that was an equal mixture of aggravation and gratitude. "Yeah," he feebly croaked. "Thanks to you."

Chet turned his attention to the remaining members of their rescue party. "Cap? Marco?"

The two men slowly slid their helmets and masks off and then gave their concerned crewmate a pair of weary nods.

Kelly closed his eyes and exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

"Everybody seems to be okay—but _you_, Chet," Mike Stoker suddenly announced. "If that big, black hole in the back of your left pant leg is any indication," their Engineer solemnly continued, "you _may_ have suffered a **serious** burn…"

Chet glanced down at the gaping hole in the back of his left pant leg and winced. From the 'charred' looks of things, his 10.5 million-dollar self was gonna be in for an all expenses paid trip _back _to Boston.

"Let's have a look at that leg," one of the paramedics from 36's suggested and tried leading the injured fireman over to their squad.

But his burn victim balked. "Uhhh…John, here, can take care of it. Can't you, John!"

Gage got to his knees and started reaching for his rather oddly behaving buddy's burnt pant leg.

His patient panicked. "Not right here!" Kelly exclaimed and jumped clear of the paramedic's probing appendages. "Let's do it over by—er, behind the Squad."

The remaining members of Engine 51's crew exchanged smiles, and 'knowing' glances.

John gave his strange victim a matching stare and started struggling stiffly to his feet.

* * *

Chet took a seat on the Squad's back running board and John began emptying its side compartments.

"There's no need to 'hide', you know," Gage teased, as he came limping around the back of the truck. "We've all seen your hairy legs before," he added and set the three cases he was carrying down at his feet. The paramedic suppressed a smile and crouched down to open their burn kit, their drug box and their Bio-phone. He removed a bottle of normal saline from their drug box, pried its rubber stopper off and started to apply the soothing liquid to his patient's burnt leg.

"NO-O!" Kelly shouted and quickly shoved Gage's wrist away. "You tryin' to get yourself_ electrocuted_?!"

The bruising blow knocked the normal saline out of the paramedic's hand. The glass bottle hit the pavement and shattered.

John's grimace was gradually replaced by an angry glare. "What'd yah go an' do **that** for?!"

Chet replied with another question of his own. "Why don't _you_ just take a look?"

"I was going to! I want to wet the wound down first, in case your pants are stuck to your leg."

"Forget that!" his impatient patient advised. "Just take a _look_, will yah?"

Gage reluctantly slipped his bandage scissors from the black leather pouch on his belt. The paramedic crouched down and, even more reluctantly, began cutting Kelly's left pant leg away. Suddenly, he stiffened.

Chet watched in amusement as Johnny's jaw dropped open.

The paramedic's eyes about doubled in size and his brows arched up into the middle of his furrowed forehead. He stared disbelievingly down at the charred hole in the back of his buddy's left leg. His friend's flesh had been 'melted' away, leaving some complex wiring, stainless steel circuitry and tiny hydraulic cylinders exposed. Gage was left speechless. So he glanced up at Kelly, hoping—er, _pleading_ for some sort of a 'reasonable' explanation for what he was seeing.

"I'm a cyborg," Chet cheerily informed him. "I'm _bionic_," he tacked on, upon seeing that his paramedic friend remained completely baffled.

"_Bionic_…" John numbly repeated, when he was finally able to speak again. The flabbergasted fireman turned to the open base kit beside him. He raised their Bio-phone to his right ear and inserted the call stick, but then hesitated to press the 'send' button.

His patient suddenly looked a little nervous. "What's the matter?"

The paramedic looked completely perplexed and held out the handset. "Who do I call?" he pondered. "_Rampart_?…or _Radio Shack_?"

Gage had managed to maintain a perfectly straight face whilst posing his questions, so Kelly couldn't tell if he was kidding. Whether—or not—Johnny's remarks had been made in jest, Chet had found them _most_ entertaining. He had even managed an amused snort.

The grin that John had been suppressing eventually escaped. He dropped the handset back into its cradle and himself down on the running board beside his 'bionic' buddy.

The two amused amigos chanced a glance at one another—and finally cracked up.

* * *

Karen Stoker heard Chet Kelly snickering in his sleep. "Not everyone is having nightmares…" she commented to her still somewhat shaken spouse. "By the sounds of it, Chet's having a rather _pleasant_ dream."

Mike glanced up at the giggling guy, in the hospital bed, right across from Marco's, and was forced to smile.

* * *

Chet snickered again, and then groaned. His cracked ribs were reminding him that he was in no condition to be 'cracking up'—even if it was just in his sleep. The hurting gentlemen moaned and groaned and slowly opened his eyes.

He blinked his sleep-blurred vision into focus and raised his head up, to take a better look at his bizarre surroundings. The rudely awakened dreamer glanced dazedly around the hospital ward.

He saw Mike and Karen Stoker smiling at him. The fireman flashed the couple a faint smile and then let his heavy head drop back onto his pillow. 'Crap!' He was still confined to a hospital bed! 'Scientists!' he thought, and grunted disgustedly.

Tired of staring up at the egg-sucking ceiling, he turned his head to gaze across at the motionless body in the bed beside his. Kelly couldn't help but smile, seeing that his soundly sleeping friend was more _off_ his bed, than _on_ it. "_Rampart_?…Or _Radio Shack_?" he repeated—right out loud—and started snickering all over again. "Good one, Gage!"

**TBC**

**Author's note: **An extended rain delay in our silo-filling operation has finally allowed me to get some typing done. :D

Johnny's DMCST induced dream is next…followed, finally, by Marco's.

Before I start typing on those though, I am going to 'attempt' to wrap up my other two E! fic's, first.

This season is particularly INSANE on a dairy farm. :D

I like to tell everybody: "We have a **lot** of breakdowns in the summer. Some of them are even _mechanical_." LOLOL


	29. Chapter 29

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Twenty-Nine  
**

*_Johnny's DMCST induced dream_*

John Gage squirmed fitfully in his sleep. No matter what position he tried, he couldn't seem to get comfortable. Finally, he just gave up. The restless fireman's eyes slowly opened and he lay there, squinting up at a sky-blue ceiling. 'What an odd color for a ceil—' he halted, right in mid-thought.

The ceiling wasn't sky-blue. The ceiling was blue sky!

'What the—?!' The disturbed sleeper stiffened and snapped bolt upright, to take a long look around. No wonder he couldn't get comfortable! He was sprawled out on the cold, hard ground!

To his right, stretched mile after endless mile of flat, barren desert.

To his left, were low, rolling hills sparsely covered with clumps of dried out buffalo grass and mesquite bushes. Beyond the hills, he could see the bright, pink glow of dawn on the horizon.

Gage blinked his wide eyes and gradually engaged his gaping jaws. "What the—?!" he re-exclaimed, this time, aloud.

"It's about time you stirred!" a familiar voice suddenly spoke up, from somewhere behind him.

John jerked and spun around.

His partner was stooped beside a small campfire, holding up an old enamel coffeepot. "Want a cup?" he grumpily inquired.

Gage just sat there, staring—in disbelief—at the bizarre way his buddy was dressed.

Roy was wearing a dust-covered, gambler's-style Stetson—of some undeterminable color. The hat was pulled low over his blue eyes and was cocked almost sideways on his sandy-haired head. His heavy cotton shirt was a dingy white. Its cuffs were unbuttoned and its sleeves were rolled midway up to his elbows. He also had on a black leather vest, a pair of faded, old, dusty blue jeans and Western _riding_ boots?

John was about to ask his companion why he was dressed 'that' way, when he suddenly noticed how he was clothed—er, **not** clothed himself! He stared down at his bare chest and arms—in further disbelief. At least his legs were covered. Much to his amazement, he was sporting skintight, tan leather breeches and a pair of tall, brown, leather moccasins, laced just about up to his knees. He caught a glimpse of something black, out of the corner of his eye—his hair? His hair currently hung down past his shoulders! There was a broad, leather band strapped to the upper portion of each of his arms. He raised his right hand and felt his forehead. A narrower band of leather was strapped across it.

There had to be a perfectly sound reason why the two of them were dressed the way they were.

John just couldn't seem to recall what it was.

"Okay," his irritated friend informed him, "I'm pourin' it out."

John snapped back to _ reality_? "Uh-uh…No! No. I'll have a cup." He got stiffly to his moccasined feet and crossed quickly over to the fire. He picked up a slightly dented old tin cup and held it out to the coffee dispenser.

Roy gave him an annoyed glare and reluctantly poured him out a cup of very black coffee.

"Thanks!" Gage flashed his impatient friend a grateful smile and then watched as he tipped the pot upside-down and drowned their campfire out with the remainder of its contents.

The fire hissed and crackled and started smoking something awful.

DeSoto quickly kicked dirt over it with his boot, smothering both the fire and the smoke.

Gage glanced up from the steaming cup in his hands. "Ro-oy…what's goin' on?"

"What d'yah mean?"

"I mea-ean, where the heck are we? And, why are we dressed like…_this_?"

"We're still two hours a' hard riding from the Post! That's where we are!" Roy smartly replied. "An', how else are we s'posed to be dressed? In our Sunday-go-ta-Meetin' clothes?" He stashed the empty coffeepot into a leather saddlebag. "We don't have time to stand around here jawin' all morning! Captain Stanley was expecting us back two days ago, already! An' we'd a' been there, too! If it wasn't for **you**!" he annoyedly added. Then he snatched two leather bridles up and turned to leave.

"Where yah goin'?" Gage wondered.

"Where does it _look_ like I'm goin'?" DeSoto irritatedly inquired. "To get the horses!" he grumpily explained.

John's lower jaw dropped. "_Horses_?"

"And, if it's not asking too much, do you think you can possibly finish that coffee and get ready to pull out? You've already cost us _two whole da-ays_! Remember?"

"No-o. What'd I do?!" John called after him. He watched Roy disappear over a little rise and then glanced around, looking completely lost. "What'd I do?"

* * *

DeSoto reappeared a minute or two later, leading two bridled horses—one, a raven black gelding, the other, a dark bay mare. "Saddle up, will yah!" he urged more than asked and pressed the black horse's reins into the palm of his non-moving companion's left hand. He gave Gage another grumpy glare. Then he brushed quickly past him and led his mare over to where his saddle and bedroll were.

Gage gazed down at the reins in his left hand…and then at the murky brew in his right. He dumped the cup's still-steaming contents out and went striding back over to his own bedroll, with the big, black gelding in tow.

* * *

John shook the dirt and debris from both of his woolen blankets. The shorter one was doubled up and then placed upon his horse's back. The longer one was rolled up and secured behind the seat of his US Army issue _Cavalry_ saddle? He kept glancing in his moody companion's direction.

But his peeved partner just continued to completely ignore him.

Gage gasped in frustration. "Look…Roy…whatever it was I did…I'm _sorry_. Okay?"

DeSoto's jaw dropped in disbelief and he spun around to face his infuriating friend. "Whatever it was you did? WHATEVER IT WAS YOU DI-ID?! You make it sound like you don't' _know_ what you did!"

"That's prob'ly because I _don't_!"

"Yeah?!" Roy turned his back on his clueless companion and resumed saddling his horse. "Well, I **do**! And, I **don't** wanna talk about it!"

Gage gasped again, as his bugged buddy's bewildering comments fueled his own frustration. "But—"

"—I **don't** wanna talk about it!" Roy repeated, an unmistakable tone of finality clearly evident in his raised voice.

John reluctantly returned to his task. "Sheesh! What a grouch!" he grumbled to himself. 'Oh, well…Maybe Cap'll fill me in, when we get to the Post?' He latched onto his saddle and swung it up onto his horse's US Army-blanketed back. A rather disturbing thought suddenly poked its way into his completely boggled brain. 'A _ Cavalry_ Post?…Nahhh! That's ridiculous!' But then, so was the bizarre get-up he was wearing.

DeSoto finished tying his saddlebags to the back of his seat and swung effortlessly up into his saddle. Then he tugged his horse's head around and nudged it into a nice, easy canter.

Gage finished snugging and securing his saddle's girth. Then he gathered up the gelding's reins and hoisted himself up onto its tall back, as well. He gave their campground one last glance…and then went galloping off after his peeved partner. 'When did Roy learn to _ride_?'

**TBC**


	30. Chapter 30

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty**

The pair rode along in complete silence, for what seemed like hours.

John couldn't really tell how much time had elapsed, because his watch was mysteriously missing.

Gage hadn't really minded the lack of conversation. He'd been too busy enjoying the crisp, morning air and sunshine—not to mention the amazing scenery.

The two buddies were traversing through some pretty diverse—and incredibly beautiful—country.

* * *

DeSoto suddenly broke off from the little creek they'd been following for the past few miles and headed his horse up a steep, and rather densely wooded, hillside.

Gage automatically turned his gelding's head and followed after his friend.

* * *

There was a wagon-wheel-rutted dirt road running along top of the hill.

Roy swung his mare's head to the right and then started heading down it.

Once again, John followed his partner's lead. The paramedic's eyes suddenly widened in surprise and he promptly reined his horse in. The flabbergasted rider just sat there in his saddle, staring out across the flat, open plain that now lay ahead of them…at a Western town, and the US Army Fort that stood beside it. "It **is** a _Cavalry _Post!" he exclaimed aloud. 'But…what would _Captain Stanley_ be doing **there**? Better yet, what am I doing **here**?'

DeSoto noticed that his dallying friend was no longer following him. He reined his mare in and glanced back over his shoulder. "Will you come on!" he ordered more than asked and kicked his mount into a gallop.

Gage obediently urged his horse into a canter and then nudged it up a notch, into a gallop. He ducked low over the animal's outstretched neck and quickly closed the gap between him and his still in a bad mood buddy. "What is it with you, anyways?!" he shouted, over the sound of galloping hooves. "You wake up on the wrong side a' your bedroll, or something?!"

His grumpy partner completely ignored the question and spurred his mount on faster.

'So, you wanna race, do you?' Gage grinned and promptly did the same.

Once again, the gap between them closed and they galloped on—neck and neck.

* * *

As the pair approached the Cavalry Post, the fort's front gates swung open, and the racing riders went galloping through them—still in a dead heat.

* * *

They raced across an open yard and then reined their snorting, sweat-lathered horses up in front of the Commanding Officer's Quarters.

Gage flashed his 'fast' friend a broad, slightly crooked grin. "Where'd _you_ ever learn to ride like _that_?"

Much to his amazement, DeSoto returned his grin. "The same place _you_ did!" Roy smartly replied. "The top of a horse!"

Their grins broadened.

But then, Roy recalled that he was supposed to be mad at his amigo, and immediately became grumpy again.

The duo dismounted.

Gage loosened the girth on his saddle, to give his horse a breather.

DeSoto did likewise.

The pair wrapped their horses' reins around a hitching rail and then stepped up onto one of the board sidewalks that ran in front of each of the barracks' buildings.

A door suddenly flew open and a very upset Captain Stanley came stomping out of his quarters, looking rather 'sharp' in the midnight-blue Cavalry officer's uniform he was wearing. "What the devil's going on out here?! Where the heck have you two been?!"

John closed his gaping jaws and gave their angry, oddly dressed boss a 'Don't look at me-e, if you're expecting an answer anytime soon' shrug.

Roy whipped his Stetson off and whacked it against his blue jeans until it went from beige, to gray, to black. "The Comanche camp."

Captain Stanley looked astonished.

Gage was even more amazed by this bit of 'news'.

"Did you see any sign of the Colonel or the Major?" their Captain anxiously inquired.

John turned to his partner, who seemed to have all the answers.

"They're both still alive," Roy assured him.

The look on their boss' face went from relieved, to skeptical. "You _sure_?"

DeSoto nodded and then turned to give his partner an angry glare. "Johnny, here, got down into the camp and made sure!" He turned back to the Captain and continued. "The Comanche spotted him! You wouldn't _believe_ what we've been through these past two days!"

"Sure he would. Go ahead," Gage encouraged, "tell u—er, him…"

Roy's jaw dropped. He stared at his partner in complete disbelief. "You're too much, you know that! I mean, you're **really** _too much_! You're unbelievable! You nearly get us **killed**—and then you wanna _brag_ about it?!"

John opened his mouth, to explain that didn't remember 'almost getting them killed', but then halted, as their Captain held his right hand up.

"Never mind," Stanley ordered. "What about the prisoners? Could you see a way to rescue them?"

"It would be suicide to even try," DeSoto solemnly, and sadly, replied.

Hank motioned to his partner. "If he made it into—and back out of—the camp alive, why couldn't a rescue party do the same?"

DeSoto just stared back at Stanley in disbelief. "Captain, there are over 700 Comanche warriors in that camp—and another 200, or so, Mescalaro Apaches! Now, I don't know _how_ **he** ever made it into and out of there alive! Or, even _how_ **we** managed to make it back here! But I do know one thing, a man would have to be a downright **fool** to go up against _that many_ Indians!"

Gage looked thoughtful and then somewhat insulted.

Stanley looked tremendously disappointed, but then brightened. "Find Lieutenant Stoker, Sergeant Lopez and Corporal Kelly, and have them report to me—on the double!"

Roy nodded and turned to leave.

The Captain latched on to the departing man's elbow. "Look, I know you two are civilian scouts, and that I can't 'order' you to do _anything_. But I'd sure appreciate it, if you were to join us…"

'_Civilian_ **scou-outs**? What the—?' John turned to Roy, to see what **his** response was gonna be to their Captain's bizarre comments.

His partner took the Captain's little 'revelation' completely in stride. "What we'd really like to do next, is get ourselves some breakfast. We haven't had a descent meal in three days."

Hank took the hint and smiled. "Your breakfast will be ready and waiting for you when you return."

Roy grinned. "In that case, we'll be back—on the double!" He stepped down from the boardwalk and back up beside his horse.

John watched as his friend tightened his saddle's girth back up and pulled his mare's reins from the hitching rail.

The rider tossed the reins up onto his horse's withers and swung himself back up into his saddle. Then he tugged the animal's head around and went cantering back off across the yard and out the fort's front gate.

Gage was torn as to what he should do. He wanted to have a long talk with Captain Stanley, but he also wanted to stick with his partner. The confused fireman exhaled an exasperated gasp and decided to follow his friend. He snatched his reins from the rail, snugged his saddle's girth up, towed the gelding clear of the hitching post and then did a rather fancy 'moving' mount.

Captain Stanley watched the brave young brave go cantering off across the yard. Then he spun smartly on his tall, black leather booted heels and marched right back into his quarters.

**TBC**


	31. Chapter 31

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-One**

John caught back up with his buddy in town.

"Where yah goin'?" Gage wondered, as his friend dismounted and wrapped his mare's reins around the hitching rail in front of 'The Sidewinder Saloon'.

"To give Lieutenant Stoker, Sergeant Lopez and Corporal Kelly the Captain's message," Roy replied and stepped up onto the boardwalk. "Wait here," he advised.

"Why can't I come with?" John wondered.

DeSoto pointed to a small wooden sign nailed next to the saloon's entrance.

It said: "**NO INJUNS ALLOWED**"

John stared at the sign, and then at his friend, in disbelief.

Roy gave his bewildered partner a deeply sympathetic look. Then he pushed through the saloon's doors and disappeared inside.

The unwelcome INJUN slipped his moccasined feet from his stirrups and dropped to the ground. He snugged his gelding's reins to the same hitching rail. Then he stepped up onto the boardwalk, crossed over to the drinking establishment's entrance and peered cautiously over the tops of the swinging doors.

* * *

His buddy was standing at the bar, speaking with Lieutenant Stoker and Sergeant Lopez.

Corporal Kelly was seated at a nearby table, talking to a pretty saloon girl.

DeSoto stepped up to their table and said something to Kelly.

Kelly tipped his hat to the pretty lady. "Pardon me, Miss. But something important has just come up," he told her and began taking his leave.

Chet and Roy started heading for the exit.

Mike and Marco quickly concluded their business at the bar and trailed after them.

"So, those savages still have the Colonel and the Major, huh," Kelly remarked, sounding more than a little miffed. "Probably tortured 'em, too, no doubt. No wonder THEY say: The only good Indian is a dead Indi—" he spotted John's eyes, noticed that they were narrowing into ominous slits, and immediately stopped speaking. "Present company excepted, of course," he nervously concluded.

"Of course," Gage sarcastically agreed and stepped aside, so the 'white men' could exit the saloon.

The four of them shoved their way through the saloon's swinging doors and headed for their horses.

All five of them pulled their horses' reins from the hitching rails. Then they mounted up and went trotting out of town, in the direction of the fort.

* * *

The group cantered up to the Commanding Officer's Quarters and dismounted. The men secured their mounts to the hitching rails and stepped up onto the boardwalk.

The group reassembled in front of the door to their boss' office.

Corporal Kelly rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden portal a couple of times.

"Come in!" Hank Stanley invited.

Chet opened the door and, as the men entered the office, single file, an enticing aroma filled their nostrils.

The entire room smelled of grilled pancakes.

The three soldiers in their little group promptly snapped to attention and saluted.

Instead of returning their salute, the fort's Commanding Officer waved an arm toward his desk.

An enormous platter, piled high with hot, buttered flapjacks, was sitting in the center of it.

"There you are, gentlemen," the Captain announced and passed each of his civilian scouts a plate and a fork. "Go ahead," he encouraged and motioned to two chairs that had been placed in front of his desk. "Sit down. Enjoy your breakfast."

Gage and DeSoto gave their gracious host looks of undying gratitude and sank their famished selves into the proffered seats.

Stanley placed a steaming cup of black coffee down in front of each of them and finally directed his attention toward his troops—who were still standing there at attention, saluting him. Hank returned their salutes and then said, "At ease, gentlemen. Please…be seated."

The soldiers dropped their raised arms and then the rest of themselves into the three remaining chairs.

"Well," Stanley began, "as you have probably already heard, the Comanches still have the Colonel and the Major, and they are both still alive. At least, they were two days ago."

"It's a shame we can't do something about that," Lieutenant Stoker spoke up. "Unfortunately, we just don't have enough troops to take on _that many_ Indians."

His fellow soldiers nodded glumly in agreement.

"Who says that we have to 'take them on'?" the Captain calmly inquired. "I've come up with a plan—a way for us to get them back, without _any _loss of lives—on _either_ side."

All five members of the officer's captive audience suddenly looked curious—and more than a little skeptical.

"Gage and DeSoto have assured me that there is no possible way for **us** to get the prisoners out of the Comanche's camp," the Captain continued. "So I've devised a plan that will force the **Comanches** to _release_ them."

His men exchanged thoughtful glances and then stared back up their Commander, looking extremely curious.

"Here's the plan. We wait til dark…sneak down into the Comanche camp…and kidnap two of _their _chiefs—" Stanley was forced to stop talking by DeSoto, who suddenly seemed to be choking on a piece of his flap-jacks.

John gave his fitfully coughing friend's back a not too gentle whack. "Hey, you gonna be okay?"

Roy shot his helpful associate an annoyed glare. Then he cleared his throat and swung his head in their host's direction. He gave the Captain an 'Have you lost your cotton pickin' mind?' look.

Hank completely ignored the look and calmly continued. "Then we take **our** prisoners and trade them for **their** prisoners."

DeSoto wasn't the only member of the officer's audience who was a bit dubious.

Lieutenant Stoker very delicately formed his doubts into words. "Captain Stanley, what makes you think that we could get in and out of the Comanche camp—without losing any lives?"

"Because someone has already proven that it can be done," the Captain calmly replied.

Sergeant Lopez turned to Corporal Kelly. "Regali's got half the Comanche Nation with him."

Kelly nodded grimly. "Not to mention those butchering Mescalaros."

The soldiers sat there, wondering **who** could've been _insane_ enough to face such overwhelming forces—**alone**.

The Captain caught their questioning looks and directed his gaze to Gage.

The men stared at the Cavalry scout's back, in shock and disbelief.

"Johnny made it in and out of the Comanche camp?" Kelly questioned.

Gage lowered his loaded fork and glanced back over shoulder. "Well, actually—"

"—Roy, here, says he watched him do it," the Captain interrupted. "Now, it's bound to be an extremely dangerous mission. And, under the circumstances, I can't order any of yous to come along. So I'm asking for volunteers…"

Sergeant Lopez locked gazes with Gage. "Are **you** volunteering for this?"

John looked at a complete loss and turned to his partner. "Are we?"

Roy could not believe his ears. "Are you outta your ever-lovin' mind?! What?! Have you suddenly gone plumb loco, or somethin'?! We just spent the last two days dodging Comanche scouting parties! Remember?!"

"No-o," John told him truthfully.

"Well, **I** _do_!" his somewhat confused partner exclaimed. "And I ain't the least bit anxious to go through _that_ again!"

John saw the look of extreme disappointment on their Captain's face. "These two prisoners the Comanche have…are they good men?"

Stanley nodded. "Very good men…with wives and children."

"Do the Comanche intend to kill them?" John further inquired.

All four of the soldiers in the room nodded, solemnly.

"In that case," Gage flashed his glum Captain a sad, slightly crooked, smile, "you can count me in."

DeSoto dropped his fork—and his lower jaw.

"Me, too," Chet quickly chimed in.

"I guess I'll go," Marco muttered, sounding a lot less enthusiastic.

"When do we leave?" Mike wondered, his inquiry leaving no question as to where _he_ stood on the matter.

The Captain gave each member of his little group of 'volunteers' a warm, appreciative smile, and then turned to his second-in-command. "Lieutenant, requisition five fresh mounts and enough provisions to last three days."

Stoker nodded and turned to Lopez. "Sergeant, requisition five fresh mounts and enough provisions to last three days."

Lopez nodded and turned to Kelly. "Corporal, requisition five fresh mounts and enough provisions to last three days."

Kelly nodded and looked around the room. "This patrol could use a few privates," he grumbled and started getting stiffly to his feet.

The guys grinned.

Gage glanced at his partner.

DeSoto was too disgusted with him for words.

"Well, we can't just leave them there to die," John stated in his defense.

"Oh…really? Why can't we?" his partner annoyedly pondered.

"Be-e—cause we're _rescue_ men. _That's_ what **we** do. We 'rescue' people."

"Hey, I'm all _for_ 'rescuing' people! I'd just like to be able to **live** to _tell_ about it, is all!"

"You heard what they said. The Comanche are gonna **kill** 'em."

"Yeah. And, at a _hundred and fifty_ Indians—to each _one_ of us, they're probably gonna kill **us**, too!"

John flashed his grumpy companion a tentative smile. "**Us**?"

Roy's weary shoulders sagged in defeat. He exhaled an exasperated gasp and gave his exasperating buddy a reluctant nod.

Gage grinned and slapped his partner on the back—again.

DeSoto gave him another, disgusted, grumpy glare.

Their Captain looked positively delighted. "Corporal, make that six fresh mounts."

Kelly clicked his heels smartly together and gave his grinning Superior Officer a rather snappy salute. "Oui, oui, mon Capitaine!"

Stanley's grin broadened. "This isn't the _French Foreign Legion_…yah twit."

"Aye, aye, Cap'!" Kelly sheepishly acknowledged. "—tain," he quickly tacked on and wisely took his leave.

**TBC**


	32. Chapter 32

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Five hours of hard riding later, the mounted patrol reached a small, spring-fed stream, where they stopped to water their horses and fill their canteens.

Captain Stanley whipped the US Cavalry hat from his head and swiped the perspiration from his sweaty brow. "How much further?" he inquired, directing his gaze at Gage.

John looked at a total loss and turned to his partner.

Roy shielded his eyes and stared up at the position of the sun. "If we keep going at this pace—and don't run into any of their scouting parties—we should reach the Comanche camp by nightfall."

The Captain was both pleased and relieved to hear that. "All right, mount up!"

The men obediently swung back up into their saddles and DeSoto started leading their little patrol downstream.

* * *

They rode on for the remainder of the day and reached the Comanche camp just after sundown—exactly as his partner had predicted.

The patrol paused in a little clearing, at the top of a heavily wooded, moonlit hill, and DeSoto motioned for them to dismount.

Gage gritted his teeth and then slowly—and very painfully—lowered his stiff, sore self to the ground. It seemed that, after spending over fourteen hours hugging the back of a horse, the fireman's legs had forgotten how to walk. He did a few deep knee bends, to limber himself back up a bit, and then stumbled off after his nimble partner—who'd gone creeping off into the dense underbrush.

* * *

The two of them fought their way downhill for awhile.

Suddenly, Roy froze.

John froze, too, and then stood there, staring over his statuesque friend's shoulder, at the glowing, orange embers of a hundred Comanche campfires.

The pair watched in silence as silhouetted warriors moved about the incredibly large Indian encampment.

Movement returned to Roy's limbs and he motioned for them to head back up the hill.

* * *

DeSoto stepped up to the Captain. "They're _still_ there," he reported, his whispered words dripping with disappointment.

"Excellent!" the Captain exclaimed, his equally hushed voice filled with excitement. "Okay, John, what do we do _now_?"

"Uhhhh…we-ell…" the paramedic struck a pensive pose. He had never had to lead a Cavalry patrol into a Comanche camp to kidnap a couple a' chiefs before. So he had no experience to draw from. However, his wild imagination was certainly willing to rise to the occasion. "You can start by stripping. Everything's gonna hafta come off."

The Captain and his men immediately started stripping.

John pulled his knife from its sheath. "I'll be right back," he promised.

* * *

Gage crossed over to where his Captain's mount was tied and lopped a long length of the horse's tail off. He did the same to Stoker's, Lopez's and Kelly's mounts. He stopped behind his buddy's horse and held up its still intact tail. "You coming with?"

"Uhhh…no. No," Roy replied. "Someone has to stay with the horses."

John dropped the animal's tail and replaced his knife.

* * *

Gage stepped back up to Stanley.

The Captain and his crew were standing there, clothed in nothing but their one-piece, woolen longjohns—complete with cute little buttoned flaps in the backs.

Gage emitted a gasp that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. "_Everything_ has to come off," he impatiently repeated. "And then you can put your pants and your boots back on."

The men looked every bit as uncomfortable as they felt, to hear _that_.

Kelly was downright horrified. "B-But…that means we won't have any underwear on."

This time, John exhaled a weary sigh. "You have two choices. You can _die_—with your underwear on. Or, you can _live_—without it."

The one-piece longjohns were immediately removed, as modestly as possible, and pants and boots were promptly pulled back on.

Gage then went down the line, handing a big gob of tail hair out to each of the 'white-eyes'. "Drape this horse hair over your heads," he ordered. "Side to side," he specified, suppressing a smile.

The men did just as directed, draping the long strands of horsetail over their heads, until the hairs hung down to their bare shoulders—equally—on both sides.

Next, John took the soldiers' four, bright-yellow neckerchiefs and tied the makeshift wigs in place. "Now, smear some dirt on your 'pale' faces."

The men stared distastefully down at the dirt beneath their feet.

"Go on," Gage urged. "And, while you're at it, get your pale arms, backs and chests, too."

One by one, his companions stooped down and started smearing dirt over their pale skin. They did each other's backs and then stood there, beneath the light of a full moon, staring at one another's scarf headbands and shoulder-length hair, marveling at their amazing transformation.

'Oh well,' John silently assessed, 'we do have darkness on our side.' He gave the bright orb in the night sky an annoyed glare. 'Sort of.' He exhaled a resigned sigh and turned to Stanley. "We'll need ropes and gags."

The Captain turned and issued the order to his Sergeant.

Marco stepped up to his horse and removed the requested items from one of his saddlebags.

"What are we gonna use for _weapons_?" Lieutenant Stoker cautiously inquired.

"We don't need 'weapons'," John informed him. "Besides, we fire _one_ shot—and we're all **dead**." He saw the unhappy looks on his friends' faces and forced a sad smile. "The plan was to not lose _any_ lives—Indian or White. Remember?"

Stoker nodded, glumly.

"Okay then," Gage determined, "let's go. Stick to the shadows…as much as possible," he added, giving the full moon another annoyed glare.

The brave band of kidnappers departed the little moonlit clearing and then disappeared down the heavily wooded hillside.

**TBC**


	33. Chapter 33

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

The rescuers soon reached the edge of the Comanche camp and their guide motioned for them to stop.

"Remember," Gage reiterated in a whisper, "keep to the shadows and—no matter **what** happens—don't say a single word." He stared at the two mustachioed Indians in their little group for a few moments and then winced. "Try to keep your faces concealed," he strongly advised.

The Captain looked curious. "What happens if they stop us?"

"Just laugh," John replied, "and keep on laughing."

The men seemed extremely skeptical as to the soundness of that advice, but crept off after their departing friend, anyway.

* * *

The tiny band of intruders managed to make it past two guards—completely undetected.

However, a third guard spotted the group and ordered them to halt.

"Start laughing," John urged, out of the side of his mouth, "and keep moving."

The men mustered up a few nervous chuckles.

"Put your hearts into it!" their guide warned, in a whisper.

The guys began to laugh a little louder and harder.

Chet and Marco bent down and slapped their knees, and the entire group just kept right on laughing—and walking.

The Comanche guard pointed his feathered lance at the laughers and advanced a few feet in their direction. "Ish-nabe`!" he gruffly repeated. "Masanta neche`!"

The merry little band continued to disregard the shouted order—er, threat, and chose, instead, to laugh their way right on by the grumpy guy.

Gage glanced back over his shoulder and gave the now completely bewildered guard a broad grin and a shrug.

The guard lowered his spear and then stood there, grinning and shaking his head.

The patrol laughed their way out of the guard's line of sight.

* * *

John halted his friends again and they stood there for a few moments, huddled behind a teepee, heaving various sighs of relief.

"That was close," Captain Stanley understated.

Gage nodded in agreement. "We're gonna hafta be more careful. The next guard might not have _that_ guy's sense of humor." That said, John moved on, motioning for his friends to follow.

* * *

By sticking to the shadows, the group was able to make its way deeper and deeper into the heart of the Comanche camp.

Suddenly, their guide drew everyone to a halt, again. "The teepee of a chief," he announced.

The Captain stared across the open yard, at the tent Gage was pointing toward. "How can you tell? All the tents look exactly the same, to me."

The rest of the men nodded.

"The tents _are_ exactly the same," Gage agreed. "But they _all_ don't have a spear—with a chief's head-dress tied to it—pitched in front of them."

The guys spotted the spear—and the chief's headdress—and then turned back to their guide, looking duly impressed.

"Now what?" Stanley wondered.

John studied the situation for a few seconds. "We need to create a diversion…something that will get him _out_ of the tent long enough for us to get _in_. Then, when he goes back inside, we grab him!"

The men nodded the plan approvingly.

"A diversion, huh," Kelly paused, looking curious. "Just what did you have in mind?"

A pretty young Indian maiden dropped a pile of wood onto the ground beside a campfire and then started off across the yard, heading right for them.

"This," John replied. He waited until the girl was almost right on top of them. Then he stepped out of the shadows, snatched onto her wrists, pulled her into his arms—and kissed her.

The girl gasped and shrieked and started struggling—oh, yeah…and screaming…bloody murder!

Gage grinned and let the girl go.

Their diversion ran off—screaming at the top of her lungs.

The tent's residents came dashing out into the yard, to see what all the commotion was about.

John took a couple strips of cloth and a few strong cords from Sergeant Lopez's outstretched hands and placed them in his Captain's. Then he motioned for his two clean-shaven fellow kidnappers to follow him.

They did.

* * *

The three men snuck around to the back of the chief's teepee and Gage used his knife to cut an opening in the tent's leather hide wall, big enough for them to enter.

They did.

Once inside, the kidnappers pressed themselves up against both sides of the entrance flap, and then stood there, waiting.

* * *

The chief's woman was the first to return, grumbling disgustedly beneath her breath.

John clamped a hand over her mumbling mouth and an arm around her plump waist, and whisked her away from the entrance.

The chief came snickering into the teepee.

Stanley and Stoker grabbed onto his arms and wrestled him to the ground.

The chief's squaw, who outweighed Gage by a good seventy some pounds, was able to thrash her arms and elbows around and kick enough to do her attacker's ribs and shins some serious damage.

John had everything he could do to hold onto the wild woman! He gritted his teeth and tried—desperately—to keep the feisty female from sinking _hers_ into his right hand.

Following a brief struggle, Stanley and Stoker were able to get the old guy's mouth gagged and his wiry wrists tied behind his back.

Gage heaved a welcome sigh of relief as they then stepped up to assist him with his burden.

By the time the old woman was _finally_ bound and gagged, all three men were battered and breathless. They laid their fierce foe gently down on a buffalo robe and then secured her tied ankles to one of the teepee's lodge poles.

Stoker and Stanley freed the chief's bound ankles and then pulled the gagged guy to his feet.

All four men then disappeared through the slit John had cut in the tent's back wall.

* * *

Stanley and Stoker pulled their squirming prisoner over to where the Sergeant and the Corporal stood.

"The Lieutenant and I will take this prisoner back to the horses," the Captain breathlessly announced. "You two, go with Gage and get the other one."

Gage grimaced. 'The _other_ one?' Flaunting with death _once_ was bad enough. But, **twice**? "Yeah…sure," he unenthusiastically acknowledged. "Nothin' to it." He watched Stanley and Stoker drag their reluctant captive out of sight and then started moving rather reluctantly off himself.

Lopez and Kelly followed their creeping guide back off into the shadows.

**TBC**


	34. Chapter 34

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Using the protective cover of darkness, the trio made their way even deeper into the Comanche camp—their heightened senses keenly in tune to every dancing shadow, barking dog and snapping campfire ember. Their darting eyes and flaring nostrils burned a bit, from encountering clouds and clouds of wood smoke.

Suddenly, Chet stiffened and latched onto John's left arm. "Another headdress," he smugly pointed out, "another chief."

John turned in the direction of his friend's pointing finger.

Sure enough! Pitched in the dirt, just outside the entrance to a teepee, was a long, tapered spear, and, tied to its top, was a rather resplendent chief's headdress.

"Yeah," Gage clutched his bruised ribcage, "and here's hoping he's a _bachelor_…"

* * *

They crept from shadow to shadow and gradually worked their way closer to the chief's abode.

Marco grabbed Gage's arm, this time. "It's **my** turn to create the diversion," he announced.

Gage gave him an 'Oh, brother' look, but then nodded.

Lopez beamed him back an anticipatory grin.

Suddenly, a rather rotund woman exited one of the nearby teepees and started heading their way.

Sergeant Lopez was completely shattered.

His companions were most amused.

Marco hesitated.

John and Chet gave their stalled 'diversion creator' a shove in the girl's direction.

* * *

As the woman came within reach, Lopez reluctantly pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

The girl dropped the basket that she was carrying, threw her arms around her assailant's bare shoulders—and kissed him right back!

Marco gasped and struggled desperately to free himself from the amorous female's embrace.

The girl giggled and finally let her squirming captive go. She then retrieved her dropped basket and went on her merry way, giggling all the while.

Marco stared after her in confusion. He straightened his horsetail wig back up and then glanced at Gage and Kelly.

The two men were standing there in the shadows—doubled up in silent laughter.

The Sergeant frowned and went stomping back up to them.

* * *

His companions pursed their lips and struggled to regain their composure.

Marco was just about to voice his extreme displeasure with the grinning pair, when the same girl, that had created their first diversion, came walking toward them. His mustached face immediately lit back up. "All right!"

"Uh-uh-uh," Gage latched onto Lopez's left wrist and prevented him from leaving. "You just had your turn. Remember?"

Lopez's face fell and his bare shoulders sagged.

Kelly's countenance instantly brightened. But then he, too, was pulled to a stop.

"Sorry," John told him. "But your mustache will give us away...It tickles," he explained.

Chet's jaw dropped and his mustached face filled with a look of utter astonishment.

The girl kept right on coming their way.

As soon as she came with range, John snatched onto her wrists and pulled her into his arms again. 'I sure wish you were someone else,' he sadly mused, just prior to kissing her.

Their lips met and the kiss lingered.

'Why isn't she screaming, or trying to get away?' John silently wondered and slowly lifted his eyelids. In the flickering light of the flames from the closest campfire, he suddenly got a glimpse of the girl's eyes.

They were blue!

'They're the same shade of blue as—' John stopped, right in mid-thought, and a strange feeling suddenly came over him. He broke his embrace and towed the blue-eyed Indian maiden? closer to the campfire. "**Cathy?!**" he exclaimed, sounding every bit as astonished as he looked. "What are **you** doing _here_?!" Two sets of hands latched onto his bare arms and began dragging him back over to the safety of the shadows.

"C'mon, _Loverboy_," Sergeant Lopez sternly ordered, "before you get us all killed!"

Kelly glanced back over his shoulder and gave the girl an annoyed glare. "Start screamin', will yah!"

Cathy obligingly began to scream. But her heart wasn't really in it.

John spun back in the woman's direction. "Come with me!" he pleaded.

The pretty miss completely ignored him and just kept right on screaming.

John's vision blurred and his labored breath caught in his tightening throat. "_Please_, Cathy?!"

The girl chose, instead, to run away from him.

Gage gazed blurrily after her for a few moments and then finally allowed himself to be hauled off by his two persistent companions.

* * *

"What the heck's the matter with you?!" Corporal Kelly demanded in a whisper, when the trio reached the rear of the chief's teepee. "You could a' got us all **killed**!"

John just stood there, looking as drained and empty as he felt. For all he cared, right then, he may just as well **be** _dead_.

"Get with it, Gage!" Kelly angrily ordered.

Gage reluctantly 'got with it' and _forced_ himself to move. He slipped his knife from its sheath and started cutting an opening in the back wall of the tent.

* * *

Once inside the pitch-black teepee, the three kidnappers pressed themselves up against the sides of its front entrance.

The chief eventually returned from his investigation of 'all that screaming' and got immediately gang-tackled.

It took all three of them to wrestle the wiry, old chief to the ground and they were breathing extremely hard, by the time they finally managed to get the agile old guy bound and gagged.

The kidnappers pulled their prize to his moccasined feet and then promptly disappeared, out through the slit in the back of the tent.

* * *

Gage, Kelly and Lopez battled their way up the heavily wooded hill overlooking the Indian encampment.

A whiff of fresh horse manure acted as a compass, directing them right back to the rendezvous point.

The three completely exhausted men reached the little moonlit clearing and dragged their feisty captive over to where the horses were tethered.

The surprisingly strong old man had fought his captors—every single inch of the way.

"It's okay," they heard Captain Stanley call out softly. "It's our guys," he added, sounding tremendously relieved.

Stanley, Stoker, and DeSoto stepped out of the shadows, with their 'other' captive.

The Captain studied the trio's still-squirming prisoner for a few moments and then his jaw dropped open. "You've captured **Regali** himself!" he numbly announced.

Kelly and Lopez appeared stunned by the news.

Gage just stood there, breathing hard, and staring blankly off into space. He was too _de_pressed to be _im_pressed.

"Nice going!" Stanley told their gasping, glum-looking scout. "We really have some 'bargaining power', now!"

The rest of the men nodded in agreement and then started pulling their horsetail wigs off—and their blue coats back on.

DeSoto stepped up to his sad partner's side. "It's that girl. Isn't it. You saw her _again_. Didn't you."

Gage glanced in his clairvoyant companion's direction. "_Again_?"

Roy nodded. "You saw her the other night, too. Remember? _She_'s the reason you were spotted. _She_'s the one that got _you_ to get **us** nearly _killed_."

"I'm…sorry, Roy. But I don't remember a thing—before this morning."

"I tell yah what…as long as you're _forgetting_ things…I sure wish you'd forget about _her_." DeSoto gave his glum pal's slumped shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then started heading for his horse. "C'mon, let's get outta here!"

The rest of the men stepped up to their mounts, as well.

Lieutenant Stoker reached his horse and suddenly realized something. "What are _these guys_ gonna ride?" he wondered and motioned to their prisoners.

John hauled himself up into his saddle and then sat there, wishing that they would've thought to bring some extra horses along.

Instantly, two saddled horses came meandering out into the moonlit clearing.

The men stared at the new arrivals, looking absolutely astounded.

"Where did _they_ come from?" Sergeant Lopez pondered and glanced anxiously around.

"Who cares!" the Captain quietly exclaimed and began shoving Regali up onto one of the mystery mount's backs. "THEY say: _Never look a gift horse in the mouth_."

The other prisoner was thrown up onto the other 'gift horse', and then both of their unwilling guests' wrists were securely strapped to their saddles.

"Mount up!" Stanley ordered.

The rest of the men obediently climbed up into their saddles and the patrol started heading off down the hill—away from the Comanche camp.

**TBC**


	35. Chapter 35

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Captain Stanley halted the patrol several miles from the Comanche camp. "All right. Now, we are going to need another volunteer. Someone has to ride back there and make arrangements for the prisoner exchange."

There were no volunteers forthcoming.

So Stanley turned to his number one draft choice. "How 'bout it, John? You are, after all, the most qualified to deal with the Comanches."

Gage just sat there, gazing glumly down at the ground.

"**Ga-age?!**"

John heard his Captain addressing him and jerked back to reality? "Yeah, Cap?"

"How 'bout it?"

"How 'bout _what_?"

Stanley exhaled an exasperated gasp. "How 'bout **you** riding back to the Comanche camp to set up the trade?"

'Flaunt with death for a _third_ time?' John morbidly mused. 'THEY say_: Three strikes—and you're __**out**__._ On the other hand…maybe I'll get to see Cathy again?' "Sure. Why not."

His Captain looked tremendously pleased.

His buddy about fell off his horse. Roy quickly regained his seat. "Uhhh, excuse us for a moment," he calmly requested. Then he latched onto the bridle of his _loco_ partner's horse and led it out of earshot.

* * *

DeSoto studied his silent companion carefully.

His partner was just sitting there, slumped in his saddle, looking sadder than sad.

"You're going back to see that girl. Aren't you."

"That's not the _only_ reason. _Somebody_ has to go back and arrange for the exchange."

"Forget the girl, Johnny."

"I can't."

"You mean, _you don't want to_," Roy quickly corrected. "What I can't understand is _why_ you didn't just take her with you, when you first had the chance? Why do you keep going back? You're gonna get yourself **killed**. You know that."

"I tried to get her to come with me, this time. She wouldn't come. She didn't want to come."

"Then **don't** go back there!" DeSoto pleaded. "Just forget about her!"

"I told you. I'm not _just_ going back for her. _Someone_ has to set up the tra—"

"—Oh. Right," Roy interrupted, his words oozing with sarcasm. "So you're just gonna go trotting up to 700 Comanche warriors and tell them to let the Colonel and Major go?" He threw his arms up in exasperation. "That's how the Colonel and the Major got captured in the first place! _They_ tried to deal with the Comanche! And look where it got _them_!"

"Yeah. But, _I'll_ have 'bargaining power'," John reminded him, and motioned toward their two prisoners.

DeSoto just stared back at him in disbelief. "Bargaining power? **Bargaining power?!** I'll tell you who's got all the 'bargaining power'!" He pointed in the direction they'd just come from. "Those 700 Comanche warriors have all the bargaining power! What's to keep them from killing you and then going after Regali and the other chief? I'm sure the **700** of them could get their chiefs back _without_ 'bargaining'! Then they'd have _their_ prisoners and _our_ prisoners and **us** prisoners!"

"I see your point," his partner muttered pensively.

Roy looked hopeful. "Then…you're _not_ going back there?"

"Of course I'm going back there. How else am I supposed to reach them? I mean, I didn't see any payphones or Western Union offices between here and the fort. And I wouldn't think smoke signals would show up all that well at night." That said, John swung his horse's head around and nudged it into a canter.

DeSoto stared after him, sadly shaking his head. "He's hopeless," he mumbled to his horse. "Absolutely hopeless." He swung his mount around and followed his 'hopeless' friend back up to the patrol.

* * *

Gage pulled his horse up alongside of Stanley's. "Cap, how 'bout we rendezvous back at that little stream, where we stopped to water the horses?"

"Sounds good," his Captain quickly concurred.

"If I'm not there—with the Colonel and the Major—by sunup," the trade negotiator solemnly continued, "you may want to set those two free and then make a run for the fort."

"Right," Stanley acknowledged, sounding equally solemn. "Good luck, John."

Gage gave him a grateful smile and a nod.

"Okay. Let's move out," the Captain ordered. "We've got a long, hard ride ahead of us."

John watched the patrol ride off into the moonlit night, with their two prisoners' horses in tow.

His partner swung his horse's head around and went cantering off in the direction of the Comanche camp.

Gage grinned and then took off after him.

* * *

John pulled up alongside of his moody companion. "You don't _hafta_ come along. I mean, **I'm** the one who 'volunteered' for this."

Roy reined his horse in and then gave his buddy another look of complete and utter disbelief. "Yah know, if it's true what THEY say…_that Indians are superstitious about killing __**crazy**__ people_…**You** don't have _a thing to worry about_!" That said, he kicked his horse back into high gear.

John found his flustered friend's remark more 'amusing' than 'insulting'. He beamed a broad, slightly crooked grin at his witty partner's back and then nudged his mount into forward motion, too.

* * *

Gage and DeSoto were just a couple of miles from the camp, when they came across a band of twenty or so Comanche warriors.

The pair rode right up to the scouting party—and surrendered.

The astonished Indians aimed their spear tips and rifle barrels at their captives' chests and they were jerked—violently—from their saddles.

The two trade negotiators grimaced and gasped, as their arms were wrenched behind their backs and their wrists and elbows were securely tied, with long, strong strips of rawhide.

They were roughly relieved of their weapons, and then flung—not too gently—back up onto their horses.

Two brawny braves snatched onto the animals' dangling reins and began dragging them off, in the direction of their camp.

All twenty or so warriors began '_yipping_' and '_whooping_' wildly.

John cringed at all the ruckus and racket their celebrating captors were creating. "Sheesh! They sure seem to make an awful lot a fuss over a _surrender_. Don't they?"

"Yeah," Roy glumly agreed. "Imagine what it would be like, if we'd a' actually put up a fi—" he stopped speaking and grunted in pain, as a spear tip was suddenly pressed into the center of his back.

The pair wisely decided to remain _silent_ for the remainder of their brief, jostling journey.

**TBC**


	36. Chapter 36

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

The scouting party paraded their captives all through the camp, finally coming to a halt in front of another chief's teepee.

The tent's rather aloof looking resident stepped out, removed a headdress from the top of the nearby spear it was attached to and placed it regally down upon his head. The old guy gave the captives a couple of 'if looks could kill, they'd be dead' stares and then motioned for them to be brought before him.

Once again, John and Roy were yanked roughly out of their saddles. The pair stumbled, as they were pushed and prodded up to the chief, and then just stood there with spear tips pressing painfully into their backs.

Finally, John mustered up the courage to clear his throat. "Uh-uh…Hi there," he greeted the Comanche big wig, sounding as amiable as circumstances would allow. "If someone will kindly free my hands, we can get on with the arrangements for the prisoner exchange."

"Forget about your hands," Roy strongly advised. "Just tell him the plan."

"I can't _forget about my hands_. I don't speak Comanche. I speak Sign Language. You gotta _use your hands_ for Sign Language."

DeSoto stared at his fellow negotiator in both shock and disbelief. "It's a good thing _my_ hands ain't free right now, or I'd _strangle_ you!"

His partner looked extremely apologetic.

But his buddy remained really peeved with him. "If—by some ridiculous stroke of luck—we manage to make it out of this mess _alive_, and I am actually able to speak again, it _ain't_ gonna be to _you_!"

John winced.

The chief motioned for his braves to shut the two men up.

The pair felt the spear tips press harder into their backs and directed their undivided attention back to their unhappy looking host.

The old guy glared menacingly back at them. "Nueve` guam Regali. Nueve` guam Cutar," he calmly declared. Then he pulled a knife from his belt and completely lost his cool. "**Apa nashla rite` Regali y Cutar!**" he screamed and pressed the tip of his knife's shiny, sharp blade up to their black-haired captive's throat. "**Where pony soldiers are?!**" he suddenly demanded, speaking in broken English.

John could feel the tip of the blade beginning to cut into his flesh. He swallowed hard and promptly put forth a polite request. "I…uh…really wish you wouldn't do that." The stabbing pain in his throat instantly subsided. He glanced down at the old guy's empty raised hand, and heaved a huge sigh of relief. "So-o…you speak some English. That's…great."

The chief type stared down at his empty hand…and then at the ground around his feet, looking completely stunned.

"Now," John turned to the side and held up his bound wrists, "if you'll just untie my hands, I'll tell you how you can get Regali back."

At the mention of Regali's name, the old chief started nodding—rather excitedly. "Regali! Regali!"

"Right. Regali. Regali. Just free my hands—" John was jerked back around and then held in the firm grip of two brawny braves.

The old guy pressed his mean, ugly kisser right up to their talkative hostage's unhappy face. "**Where pony soldiers are?!**" he impatiently repeated.

Gage was running a little low on patience, himself. He exhaled an exasperated gasp and attempted to turn sideways again. He couldn't. So he gave up on his hands and decided to use his head, instead. "_You_," he motioned toward the chief type with his head, "give _us_," he motioned to himself and his fellow negotiator, "pony soldiers. _We_," he motioned to the two of them again, "give _you_," he motioned to the old guy, "Regali."

The Comanche chief looked thoughtful.

John looked hopeful. "Pony soldiers _us_…Regali _you_."

A look of dawning understanding came over the old man. He turned to one of his warriors and shouted out an order.

The brave nodded and disappeared.

* * *

The warrior reappeared less than three minutes later, with a half a dozen other Indians—and two distinguished looking Cavalry officers.

The trade negotiators' glum faces immediately lit up.

The chief grabbed one of the officers by the arm and dragged him up to the captives. "Pony soldiers!" he declared, with a sickening smirk.

"Right! Pony soldiers come with _us_," John motioned with his head in their direction again. "Regali y Cutar come to _you_."

"Pony soldiers!" the old guy shouted and pointed off into the distance. "Regali y Cutar," he calmly added and motioned to the ground at his feet.

"Right! Right! You got it!" John grinned and turned to his partner. "He got it."

Roy responded with a roll his eyes.

The old guy immediately issued another order.

Two of the still mounted Indians hopped off their horses and led their mounts up to the old man.

The chief took a knife from one of them, stepped up behind the two Cavalry officers and sawed through the leather straps that were keeping their elbows and wrists bound.

The two officers exchanged anxious glances and began rubbing their raw wrists.

The old guy issued a final order.

The pony soldiers were—literally—thrown onto the two horses' backs.

One of the men gave Gage and DeSoto a look of undying gratitude before galloping off.

The other guy just high-tailed it out of the Comanche camp, without so much as a backward glance.

John stared after the departing officers for a few moments, feeling mixed emotions. He was glad that they had successfully accomplished the Colonel's and the Major's rescue. Yet he was hurt that they hadn't stuck around til he and Roy were ready to leave, too.

Roy saw the Comanche chief holding a huddled, muffled conference with one of the Mescalaro chiefs, and felt extremely sick to his stomach.

John noticed that his partner was suddenly looking rather ill and turned to see what he was staring at.

A new chief was standing there, staring at them like he was a cat—and they were a couple of canaries.

The old guy gave the 'cat' a sickening smirk and a nod.

"**NO-O!**" John exclaimed, instantly breaking into _full panic_ mode. "**We go with pony soldiers!**"

The Comanche chief issued a final final set of instructions to his warriors, and then he replaced his headdress and ducked back inside his tent.

"**Hey!**" John shouted after him and attempted to take a step forward. But the arm-grippers kept him locked in place. "**Let us go!**" the dark-haired captive continued to protest, completely ignoring the spear tip that was being drilled into his bare back. "**This isn't part of the deal!**

Unfortunately—for them—nobody seemed to care.

"Who are **these** guys?" John anxiously inquired, as a half-dozen differently dressed Indians suddenly appeared before them.

"Mescalaros," Roy quietly replied.

"_Mescalaros_?" John numbly repeated. 'Hadn't Chet referred to _them_ as 'butchering' types?'

The Comanche warriors obediently turned the two remaining captives over to their Mescalaro allies.

"**NO-O!**" Gage screamed again and struggled—with everything he had left in him—to break free from his _new_ arm-grippers. His rapidly waning energy supply, however, was no match for the combined strength of the four brawny braves that surrounded him. The dark-haired captive tried to calm himself down, so that he could think clearly. But his wild imagination was getting the upper hand, and disturbing visions—of being 'butchered' _alive_—kept flooding his brain. John suddenly had the uneasy feeling that the two of them were about to find out if it was true what THEY say…about _Indians_ and _crazy people_.

**TBC**


	37. Chapter 37

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

The Mescalaros' protesting—and more than a little petrified—prisoners were dragged, kicking and squirming, out into the middle of a little moonlit clearing, about a quarter of a mile from the Comanche camp.

Gage kept up his desperate struggle to pull free.

DeSoto stopped all motion and just stood there, pinned between his brawny captors, staring solemnly down at the sandy soil beneath his feet.

John noticed that his partner had ceased fighting. He stopped his thrashing, too and followed his frozen friend's solemn gaze to the ground. "What's the matter?" he breathlessly inquired. "You know…what they're…gonna do…to us?"

Roy nodded and didn't take his eyes off the sand for an instant. "They're...going to…stake us out," he softly answered, sounding equally winded.

Gage glanced anxiously around and then back at his partner. "A-and…?"

"They're just…going to…stake us out," Roy solemnly assured him.

"That's it?" John joyously exclaimed. "Man!…What a relief!…You wouldn't believe…some of the thi—"

"—on an anthill," Roy reluctantly added and finally raised his troubled gaze from the ground.

Their eyes met and the two friends exchanged looks of abject horror.

Gage gritted his teeth and started struggling harder than ever. "**NO-O!**" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "**YOU CAN'T…DO THIS…TO US!**"

But the Mescalaro braves obviously didn't believe him, because they just went right on about their nasty business.

John watched helplessly, as eight 4' wooden stakes were driven 3' into the sandy soil of the clearing. Three ridiculously strong men gripped each of his arms, and the leather bonds on his wrists and elbows were cut.

The arm-grippers dragged him, kicking and thrashing, over to the center of four of those buried stakes.

John grunted in pain as he was thrown down onto the ground and then forced to lie—spread-eagled—on his back. He felt a wet, rawhide noose being slipped over each of his hands and feet. His arms and legs were stretched out, as far as they possibly could be, and yet still remain attached to his body. The captive emitted another involuntary groan as the wet rawhide straps were then pulled up—snugly—and securely fastened to those four buried stakes. Gage gasped in frustration, at his inability to do anything about it.

His sadistic captors finished with him and went over to give their companions a hand with his partner.

Speaking of his partner…

Roy saw John jerking on his bonds. "Relax," he numbly advised.

Gage noticed that DeSoto's voice sounded sort a' drained and hollow, like he'd already given up any hope of them surviving their ordeal. He did have to admit, their current situation did seem rather dire. 'No!' he told himself. 'As long as we're _alive_, there's hope!' **"YOU CAN'T…DO THIS…TO US!" **he angrily repeated, and kept right on jerking at his wet rawhide bonds.

The Mescalaro braves finished securing his buddy to the remaining buried stakes and then began taking their leave.

"**WAIT!…COME BACK!…YOU CAN'T JUST…LEAVE US HERE…LIKE THIS!" **

The departing braves disappeared into the shadows on the edge of the clearing.

Their shouting captive shut up and started squirming around, in an attempt to get comfortable. Gage gasped again, as he suddenly realized the futility of his efforts. There was no way he was ever going to 'get comfortable' while he was staked out on an anthill. So he gave up trying and resigned himself to the feeling of being terribly **un**comfortable.

"Don't worry," his friend further advised. "They'll be back…around sunup…to watch."

"To watch…what?" John nervously inquired, and lay there, positively dreading Roy's reply.

"Never mind," Roy told him. "Look…just forget I said that."

But John couldn't forget. "To watch wha-at?" he anxiously repeated.

"Forget about it. Will yah?" his buddy requested. "And just try to relax. This wet rawhide is gonna start drying out. And, when it does, it's gonna start shrinking…and pull—" He cut himself short and attempted to shift the subject again. "It won't hurt so much, if you unten—" DeSoto determined that he should probably shut up—entirely.

Gage exhaled another exasperated gasp and then lay there, gazing glumly up at the moon. "This can't be happening! Nobody _really_ does things like this to anybody!" His hands and feet were already starting to tingle.

Those four wet rawhide straps were acting as four tourniquets.

The four tourniquets were obstructing the arterial and venous blood supply to his tingling appendages. The infarction was causing cellular necrosis to occur.

'Lack of perfusion results in anoxia…which leads to the need for surgical amputation of the affected—' the paramedic paused, right in mid morbid thought.

No wonder his partner had already given up hope.

'Maybe the Colonel and the Major didn't leave us behind, after all? What if they stuck around to help us?'

They could sure use some help!

"**HELP!**" John shouted, into the cold night air**. "SOMEBODY—ANYBODY—HELP US!…PLEA-EASE!**"

"Save your breath," Roy gently urged.

John raised his head and aimed his anguished gaze in his staked out friend's direction. "I gotta **do** _something_! I can't just lie here…and do _nothing_!"

"Go on then. Shout until you can't shout anymore. That's what THEY want…for us to 'put on a good show' for them. Well…**I'm** not gonna give them the satisfaction."

John swallowed hard and let his head drop back. "I'm…sorry, Roy. I'm really _really_ sorry…"

"So am I," Roy softly assured him. "Believe me, so am I…"

* * *

John spent the next two tortuous hours dreaming up some new lyrics for an old song…about marching ants.

He'd managed to **re**make it all the way up to the number nine. But, occasionally, he went back to the beginning, to keep what he'd already come up with from being forgotten.

'_The ants go marching one by one…to breakfast today_,' he began again. '_The ants go marching one by one…to breakfast today. The ants go marching one by one. They'll be here with the rising sun. And the ants go marching…round and round…and down in the ground…and out in the rain_—' he halted in mid chorus. 'Man! And I thought the medical stuff was morbid!' He determined that his new lyrics were waaaaay too depressing.

With the ants out of the way, the first thing that entered his mind was pain—horrendous, excruciating pain, and it suddenly became clear why he had been concentrating so hard on the damn ants.

His tortured body felt like it was being torn in four different directions at once.

It _was_!

His hands and feet were swollen now, and had gone completely numb—a fact about which he had mixed emotions. While he was relieved that the horrific pain had subsided, he was also mortified, knowing that—**if** he survived the torture—they would undoubtedly need to be amputated.

'Uhg! Too morbid! Too morbid!' John shuddered and shoved the whole amputation business out of his mind, too. The very next thought he had, concerned his breathing. His inability to draw a deep breath had caused his respirations to become rapid and shallow—and _labored_. "It's…shrinking," he realized aloud. "And…I'm not…gonna…be able…to…stand this."

"Sure…you will," Roy assured him, sounding equally breathless. "When…the pain…becomes…unbearable…We'll…pass out."

John found very little comfort in his pal's prediction. "When…will that…be?" he breathlessly wondered. "Before…or after…I go…stark raving…mad?"

"Hopefully," his hurting friend told him, "_before_…the **ants**…get here."

John grimaced and groaned.

He'd forgotten about the damn_ ants_.

**TBC**


	38. Chapter 38

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

John lay there in the sand, tossing his head from side to side, and gasping. Every shallow breath had become excruciating—the result of his body being stretched beyond its limits.

It seemed like he'd been lying there for an agonizing eternity.

He _had_!

The tortured young man moistened his parched mouth and tried to talk. "Ro-oy?" he finally managed to croak, following several failed attempts.

It took his partner an interminably lo-ong time to reply. "Yeah…Johnny?"

John flashed a bitter smile up at a blurry full moon. "Maybe…the ants'll…sleep in?"

His hurting friend was forced to chuckle—and groan, as the sudden movement, though slight, increased his already intense agony by tenfold.

Gage's bitter smile vanished. He grimaced at the thought of having caused his partner even more pain. It wasn't fair! **He** was the one who had 'volunteered' for this! Not _Ro-oy_!

"Could be…worse," DeSoto determined through tightly clenched teeth—once he'd managed to regain his composure.

"Oh yeah?" John bit his lower lip and blinked fresh tears from his eyes. "How so?"

"We…could be…lying here…_buck naked_…and…_smothered in honey_," his partner lightly pointed out.

And it was Johnny's turn to chuckle—and groan. 'Leave it to Roy, to find a 'bright side' to all of this.'

Speaking of Roy…and 'all of this'…

Gage suddenly choked back a sob of regret. Oh, how he wished that he had never gotten his light-hearted partner involved in any of this _hideous_ business!

His hurting friend instantly stopped gasping.

"Ro-oy?" John anxiously called out.

There was no answer.

John's already stressed heart skipped a beat or two. He somehow managed to lift his head up, just enough to be able to see over his left shoulder. He blinked his vision a bit clearer and stared, in complete and utter disbelief, at the empty, moonlit space beside him.

His partner was no longer lying there—even the wooden stakes were gone!

"Ro-oy," he numbly repeated, and allowed his head to drop back onto the sand.

It was happening. He was losing touch with reality.

"Reality?!" he bitterly exclaimed. "This isn't…_real_!…This is…**crazy**!" He grimaced and groaned and closed his watering eyes—tightly. He felt something brush against the right side of his heaving chest and forced his damp eyes back open.

Cathy's blurry face appeared before him.

'Now, _that's_ more like it!' John told his cracking mind. 'What a way to go! Gazing into those beautiful blue eyes…' "No-o!" he pleaded, as the lovely apparition began to pull away. "Don't go!…Plea-ease…**don't**…leave me…agai—" He was forced to stop speaking, as the girl held two of her fingers up to his parched lips.

The pretty miss then pulled out a knife and began sawing back and forth on the thick leather strap that was keeping his right wrist secured to the wooden stake. At last, she was able to cut through.

"**AHHH-AHHH!**" the tortured man screamed in agony, as the incredible tension on his upper torso was suddenly released.

The woman stepped over the now moaning young man and immediately went to work on the thick, strong strap that was keeping his left wrist bound to yet another buried stake. Cathy cut his left arm loose and then promptly proceeded to free his moccasined feet.

"Thanks!" Gage gasped, as the blade of his beautiful rescuer's knife sliced through the last of his leather restraints. He was eternally grateful, and tremendously relieved, to finally have all that unbearable tension on his body parts eased. He would have liked to just lie there for awhile and catch his labored breath.

But the pretty miss had other plans.

Cathy tossed her knife aside and tried to pull the freed captive up into a sitting position.

Wishing to assist the woman with her task, John attempted to move. 'Mistake! Mistake! Mista-ake!' he silently shouted, and tried his level best to stifle an audible response to his suddenly quadrupled pain. In spite of his best efforts, an agonized groan escaped from his tightly pursed lips. "I'm…sorry," he gasped, with a grimace. "But…I can't…move."

The woman wasn't the least bit deterred by the news. She simply wrapped his limp left arm behind her neck and pulled him into a sitting position.

John tried to force his pained, protesting, super-stretched muscles to move. But they were still refusing to cooperate.

Somehow, Cathy managed to maneuver the tortured young man up onto his knees.

John just knelt there, swaying slightly from side to side, while every muscle, tendon and ligament in his entire abused body went 'spastic' on him. Well…with the exception of his hands and feet—which were completely dead. He was _helpless_.

And the situation seemed _hopeless_.

John sure wished that his hands and his feet were quite so _useless_! He stared wonderingly down at his hands, as 'the feeling' instantly returned to them—and his feet. He swallowed hard and attempted to wriggle his no longer black and swollen fingers. They moved! He tried wriggling his toes. They moved, as well! Not only did he have his hands and feet _back_—but they seemed to be _pain-free_! He wished the same could be said for the rest of him. Instantly, the agony he was experiencing ceased to exist. "What the—?" He scrambled quickly to his feet—his perfectly normal, _healthy_ feet and began to search the sandy, moonlit clearing for his missing partner. "Roy?!…**Ro-oy?!**" he called out again, this time a whole lot louder. But received no reply.

There was no sign of Roy—anywhere!

"What the—?" the stymied searcher exclaimed, for the second time in as many minutes.

Cathy stepped out of the shadows on the edge of the clearing, leading his saddled horse.

John ran up to her. "Cathy, where's my friend?!" he anxiously inquired. "Where have they taken my friend?"

The woman stared back at her questioner in complete confusion. "I know of no 'friend'. You came to our camp—_alone_." She placed the reins in his hands and then shoved him up to his horse's side. "Hurry! You must go—now! Before they co—"

"—Cathy," John interrupted, latching onto the little lady's wrist, "where is the other prisoner?!"

The girl exhaled an exasperated gasp. "There is no 'other prisoner'! You got Nemas to release those Army officers, and _you came here_—**alone!**" she impatiently repeated.

'Roy must've escaped…' John reasoned. He gave his mystified mind a few quick shakes and his rescuer's wrist a firm squeeze. "Come with me," he encouraged.

But Cathy completely ignored his request.

"_Plea-ease?_" John pleaded, the desperation evident in his cracking voice.

Cathy pulled her wrist free of his grasp and took several steps back. "If you do not go—_now_, they will _kill _you!"

John's vision blurred. '_You_ won't come…and **I** can't stay.' He slipped his left foot into the steel stirrup and swung his right leg over his saddle.

Cathy latched onto his horse's bridle. Then she turned the animal around and smacked it on its behind.

The horse bolted forward.

John reined the runaway in, and glanced glumly over his left shoulder.

Cathy turned her back on him and began walking off.

His blurry eyes followed her until she disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the clearing. Then he swung his head back around and nudged his horse into a canter. "Why-y?" the hurting young man whispered into the wind.

But, once again, he received no reply.

**TBC**


	39. Chapter 39

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

John reined his snorting mount in, to give it a breather. The rider slipped his moccasined feet from his saddle's steel stirrups and slowly lowered himself to the ground. He was feeling so whipped from his ordeal, and so doggoned saddle sore, that he had to lean against his lathered horse to keep from falling down.

A soft pink glow was beginning to appear on the eastern horizon.

With five hours of hard riding still ahead of him, there was no way he was going to reach the rendezvous point by dawn. He sure wished that he could be with the rest of the patrol—right now!

* * *

John jerked, startled to find himself, and his horse, standing in the middle of the patrol at the rendezvous point. He gazed around at his equally startled friends, looking completely confused. "What the—?" he exclaimed, for the umpteenth time in the past two days.

Captain Stanley overcame his astonishment and closed his gaping mouth. "Where'd you come from? We didn't hear you ride up."

John didn't hear his Captain's question. All of his attention was currently directed toward his partner.

Roy was just sitting there on his horse, safe and secure—and looking none the worse for wear.

John hurried up to him. "Roy! Man! Am I ever glad to see you! How did you manage to get away?"

Roy gave him a strange stare. "Get away? Get away from _what_?"

"The Comanches."

"The Comanches? The Comanches have never 'had' me. You wouldn't let me go with you. Remember?"

A strange look came over John as he suddenly realized that _everything_ he'd wished for, had, seemingly, come to pass. Well, maybe not _everything_. He still had to leave without Cathy.

At the sound of approaching riders, everyone turned around.

The Colonel and the Major came galloping up to their little group and dismounted.

The soldiers and the Army officers exchanged snappy salutes.

Gage gave the pair an icy glare and then swung himself up onto his rested horse's back.

The Colonel was staring at their rescuer like he was a ghost, or something. "How did you ever manage to get here _ahead_ of us?"

John completely ignored the officer's question. "Thanks for hangin' around to help us—er, me," he sarcastically stated.

The Major hung his head and looked even more disgusted with himself than Gage was. "I'm sorry. But—all I could think about, at the time—was getting back to my wife and kids."

John flashed the repentant officer a half-hearted smile. At least **he** had given them—er, him, a grateful glance—before galloping off. He immediately dismissed all feelings of bitterness and betrayal and turned his attention toward their two very important prisoners. "Cap, we should probably let Regali, and his friend there, go…" he suggested.

"Right." The Captain pulled his horse between their two captives' mounts and cut the cords that were keeping their wrists secured to their saddles.

The freed prisoners slid off of the Cavalry horses. The pair raced over to the two Indian ponies and climbed effortlessly up onto their backs. They turned the antsy animals around and went galloping off in the direction of their camp.

John watched them until they disappeared over a little rise. Then he swung his horse's head around and went riding off himself, in the opposite direction.

Roy rode after him.

"Mount up, men!" the Colonel ordered.

They did.

* * *

Gage and DeSoto heard the group coming up behind them and glanced back over their shoulders. Their eyes widened and their jaws dropped. They stared past the Cavalry patrol at a ridge on the other side of the little creek they'd just crossed.

Fifty, or so, Comanche warriors were lined up along that ridge, with their rifle barrels raised and their bows drawn—just waiting for the signal to attack.

Corporal Kelly saw their two scouts' astonished looks and turned to see what they were staring at. "Colonel! We've got company!"

The remaining members of the patrol turned in the direction of the Corporal's pointing finger and spotted the Comanche scouting party that was about to ride down on them.

John couldn't take his eyes off of their drawn bows and raised rifle barrels. The thought of all of those flying bullets and arrows was truly terrifying! He suddenly remembered something and brightened. "Man! I sure wish they wouldn't point those things at us—" Almost before he could even finish speaking it, his wish was fulfilled.

Just as the Comanche let loose with their war '_whoops_' and started charging down the ridge, their weapons vanished into thin air!

John saw the soldiers reaching for their rifles and drawing their sabers. "And I wish they wouldn't do that."

Lieutenant Stoker stared down at his empty right hand, looking completely confused. "Hey! Where did my rifle go?" He glanced around. "We don't have _any_ weapons!"

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," John told him. "THEY don't have any, either," he continued and pointed to the now stalled, and extremely puzzled-looking, scouting party.

The soldiers turned and stared at their disarmed enemies in amazement.

"They still greatly outnumber us," the Colonel glumly realized and turned to Stanley. "What do **you** suggest we do, Captain?"

"I suppose we could throw rocks at one another…" the Captain sarcastically suggested. "Or give each other dirty looks. Or, we could try to outrun them!" He swung his horse's head back around and gave it a couple of good, swift kicks in the ribs.

The rest of the soldiers turned their mounts around and went riding off after the Captain in a huge cloud of dust.

Seeing that the scouting party was about to ride right down on top of them, Roy was more than ready to make a run for it himself.

John reached out and latched onto the bridle of his about-to-bolt buddy's horse. Then he turned back to face the fifty, or so, weaponless warriors that were swooping and '_whooping_' down on them. "I wish you guys would go back to your camp—and _leave us alone_," he sternly tacked on.

The Comanches stopped their angry advance, swung their ponies around and went galloping off…in the direction of their camp.

DeSoto stared after the disappearing Indians for a few motionless moments and then slowly turned to his partner. "How—How'd you **do** that?"

"Easy." John slipped his feet from the stirrups and allowed himself to slide to the ground. "Everything I wish for…seems to _happen_."

Roy dropped to the ground and stepped up beside him. "No kiddin'?"

John flashed his partner a half-hearted smile. "No kiddin'."

His friend was fascinated. "How does it work?"

"All I have to do is wish."

Roy was even more intrigued. "Do it. _Wish_ something."

"Oka-ay…I wish we were back at the fort."

* * *

Before Roy could even blink an eye, he found himself standing beside his partner, in the yard back at the Post. "Johnny, that was fantastic! That was really incredible! And you can have **anything** you want?"

John stared off in the direction of the Comanche camp, looking lost and sad…sadder than sad. "The one thing that I wish for the most…is for me to have the woman I love in my arms and—" Cathy suddenly appeared, wrapped in his arms. He pulled her close and then held onto her, tightly. It felt so-o-o good to be able to hold her in his arms again. Gage grimaced and then forced himself to finish the rest of his wish. "—for her…to be…_happy_."

The young woman vanished—just as suddenly as she had appeared.

John stared blurrily down at his empty, aching arms for a few moments. Then he choked back a sob and dropped to his knees. The ache in his heart was unbearable! Far worse than any physical pain imaginable! It hurt so-o-o bad that he found himself wishing that he were still staked out to that anthill, rather kneeling their—slowly dying inside.

* * *

The terrible hurt in his heart instantly subsided and he found himself staked out on the sandy soil of that little clearing, once more. He blinked the tears from his eyes and slowly lifted his head up, to have a look around.

Millions of ants were marching across the sand—heading right for him!

"**NO-O!"** John screamed and jerked on his bonds…

* * *

Mike, Karen and Chet jerked, too, startled as John Gage suddenly gasped and then snapped bolt upright in his hospital bed.

Gage glanced blurrily about the room, looking first—confused…and then a wee bit embarrassed. He tossed his remaining covers aside and started getting stiffly out of bed.

Those four, big invisible guys were trying to hold him down again.

Kelly looked more than a little concerned. "Where yah goin, babe?"

"For a walk. You wanna come with? I could probably scrounge up a wheelchair…"

Chet gazed glumly down at his busted up ribcage. "Na-ahhh. Better not."

John gave his glum bed-ridden chum—and his leg cast—a couple of deeply sympathetic glances and then went stumbling out into the hall.

Kelly turned to the couple across the room from him. "What do _you guys_ think?" he wondered and placed his thumb over the button on his call buzzer. "Should we rat him out?"

Mike stared at his friend's empty hospital bed for awhile and then turned back to Chet. "Maybe he just wants to be alone for a little while?"

Karen stared at the empty doorway, looking more than a little worried. "He didn't look like he should even be out of bed, let alone roaming up and down the halls…"

So, it was one vote 'no fink' and one vote 'fink'.

With Marco still asleep, that meant that Chet had the deciding vote. His concerned gaze shifted from Gage's vacated bed…to the hallway…to his buzzer. He exhaled a weary sigh and removed his thumb from the call button.

**TBC**


	40. Chapter 40

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty**

_*Marco's DMCST-induced dream*_

Marco Lopez fumbled around in total darkness, his probing fingers searching for a light switch. His clothing seemed awfully stiff—and heavy. 'And what is that terrible '_clanking_' racket, that seems to be following me arou—?' "_Oo-oof!_" he gasped as he bumped into something in the dark. He felt someone reach out and steady him. "Who's there?" he anxiously inquired, and noticed that it sounded as though he were speaking into a barrel.

"Why, Sir Marco," a young woman's sensuous voice responded, "it seems that 'someone' has placed a scarf over your visor. Now, _who_ would possibly perform such a _dastardly_ deed?" she insincerely inquired.

'_Sir_ Marco?' Lopez mentally repeated. "Is that _you_, Diana?" It certainly sounded like the voice of his latest 'love' interest—Miss Diana Rhisen.

The lights suddenly came back on.

Marco stood there, staring out through some slatted bars, at a sunny, brick courtyard—and Diana Rhisen!

The pretty miss was standing, right there in front of him, dressed in an elegant, floor-length, red-velvet gown…a very shapely…very figure-flattering red-velvet gown.

The fireman forced his attention away from the gown. "What's with this 'Sir' business, Diana?"

Before the woman could answer, another elegantly dressed lady came rushing up to them.

The new arrival latched onto his latest love interest's arm. "Hurry, Lady Diana! The contests are about to begin!"

Lady Diana gave the news bearer a nod. Then she turned back to him and lifted the slatted bars from his eyes.

Marco raised a hand to his head and discovered that he was wearing a metal helmet with a hinged visor. "What the—?" He glanced down and jerked, startled—but not by his helmet's falling visor. His entire body seemed to be covered with a matching metal suit! 'Of **armor**?'

Lady Diana giggled and then picked his visor up again.

"Where are we?" the armored man wondered. "Outside the studio where they film '_Let's Make A Deal_?'

Lady Diana flashed the nonsensical question asker a bashful, flirtatious smile and held her bright red scarf out to him.

Marco gave the woman—and her scarf—a pair of puzzled looks.

"You **do** intend to represent _my_ honor in the Tournament, today…" the pretty woman hopefully stated.

Lopez looked even more puzzled. "_What_ Tournament?"

Lady Diana's pout transformed back into coy smile and she tied her red scarf to his left wrist. "Oh, Sir Marco…you are such a _tease_!" She blew him a kiss and then left with the other lady.

Marco took a step after her and then came to a '_clanking_' halt, as his visor fell—startling him again. He stared out from behind its slatted bars and watched Lady Diana disappear through an open gate in the tall brick wall of the courtyard.

Somebody tapped him on his metal-plated shoulder.

Marco '_clanked_' stiffly around.

A young boy appeared through the slats in his visor.

At least, he thought the kid was a boy. He, or she, had shoulder length hair with bangs down to his, or her, eyes, and he, or she, was wearing a puffy-sleeved, white satin blouse, a blue, pleated skirt…and a pair of _lime-green tights_?

The kid bowed and then held a pair of dangling leather reins up to him.

Attached to reins, was an enormous horse—which also happened to be wearing a metal suit of armor.

"Sir Marco, Sir Henry—and the others—are waiting for you," the kid hinted and motioned to a wooden block on the ground beside the horse.

"Sir Henry…and the 'others'?" Lopez cautiously repeated. 'This has to be some kind of a' costume party…or a joke—or both,' he wryly reasoned, and gave the kid a suspicious stare. "I-I'll just bet they _are._ Who put you up to this? Was it _Chet_?"

The kid just stared back at him in confusion. "Please, Sir Marco! They are waiting…"

"Let 'em wait. I'm not going _anywhere_, until I get some answers." Marco raised the visor on his helmet and gazed distastefully at the evil-eyed beast standing before him. "And I assure you, that I have no intentions—whatsoever—of getting up on _that_ thing's back."

The animal snorted aloofly back at him.

Startled, Marco jerked. His helmet's visor fell, causing him to take several '_clanking_' steps back.

The kid turned and went trotting off across the courtyard.

Marco managed an exasperated gasp and then tried—for several frustrating minutes—to get the heavy, confounded visored-helmet off of his head.

* * *

Lopez felt someone tapping him on the shoulder again. He '_clanked_' stiffly around and raised his slatted visor.

The weird kid with the long hair and lime-green leotards reappeared.

"Sir Marco," the boy gasped breathlessly, "Sir Henry wishes for me to inform you…that he and the others…are still waiting for you…Sir Henry says…that you are holding up the Tournament…and that he expects you to mount your steed…and join him and the others…at the far end of the field…**THIS INSTANT!**"

Sheesh! _That_ almost sounded like an 'order'. 'Maybe I should, at least, go and see what the Cap wants…' Lopez silently surmised. "The 'far end' of _what_ field?"

"The _Tournament_ field, Sir Marco," the kid impatiently explained, "the _Tournament_ field."

"How 'far' is _far_?"

The kid grabbed the dallying knight's armored elbow and began ushering him up to the wooden block on the ground beside the ridiculously big horse.

Marco dreaded the thought of climbing aboard the evil-eyed beast. But he had even less of desire to go '_clanking_' all the way to the 'far end' of some stupid '_Tournament_ field' in that ridiculously uncomfortable 'tin can' tuxedo he was wearing. 'Better to _ride_ than to _walk_,' he **hoped**. His armored shoulders sagged in defeat and he stepped stiffly up onto the mounting block.

The kid helped him place his armored foot into the stirrup.

Marco made a valiant attempt to swing his metal-encased right leg up and over the horse's armored back. His visor fell and the slatted bars appeared. Again, with the kid's assistance, he was able to '_clankingly_' accomplish the daunting task. He lifted his visor and flashed his helper a grateful smile. "Thanks!"

The kid nodded and passed him up the reins.

Lopez gripped them—firmly. "Uh-uh…which way to the Tournament field?"

His assistant gave him a strange stare and then pointed to an open gate in one of the courtyard's four high walls.

Marco gave the kid a grateful nod, and then grimaced, as his visor dropped and the bars reappeared. He counted to ten and then calmly raised his visor. "Giddy-up, horse!" he encouraged.

The beast laid its large ears back and didn't budge.

"C'mon!" he urged. "Giddy-up!"

Once again, the horse refused to move forward.

Marco gasped in frustration and turned to his green-leotarded assistant.

"Kick him," the kid helpfully suggested.

Lopez doubted the 'soundness' of that particular course of action. After all, he didn't want to go getting the enormous, evil-eyed animal _upset_ with him. Then again, he didn't want to 'upset' his Captain, either. He braced himself and then—very reluctantly—gave the horse's ribs a slight tap with his heels.

The beast bolted ahead.

His helmet's hinged visor dropped and he gazed out through its slatted bars—in wide-eyed terror—as his **un**trusty 'steed' proceeded to _stampede_ off across the sunlit courtyard.

"**Whoa-oah!**" Lopez pleaded.

But the evil-eyed animal continued to race across the courtyard—and right on through that open gate.

**TBC**


	41. Chapter 41

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty-One**

"**Whoa-oah!" **Marco repeated, as the runaway animal passed through the gate and went galloping down an enormous grassy field, heading right for a group of armored knights mounted on armored horses.

The group saw them coming and scattered.

"**WHOA-OAH!**" Marco demanded for a third time, desperation evident in his shrill shouted voice.

A tall, thick, leafy hedge lined the far end of the Tournament field.

Just as they were about to go slamming into it, the stampeding animal locked its legs and _finally_ slid to a stop.

Inertial energy propelled its passenger forward.

Marco had to hug the huge horse's neck, to keep himself from sailing completely out of his seat.

The steed turned its long neck and then just stood there, calmly staring at its dangling half upside-down rider.

Lopez's visor slid clear of his eyes and he gave the animal an angry glare. "Don't you _know_ about '**whoa-oah**'?!"

The horse curled its lower lip and snorted at him.

Marco gave his untrustworthy means of transportation a sneer of disdain and then attempted to get himself right side up again.

The other mounted knights regrouped and came galloping up to help him.

With their assistance, Marco was finally able to regain his seat. He heaved a huge sigh of relief, and then jerked, as his visor fell. The fireman lifted it and flashed his helpers a grateful smile. "Thanks, guys!"

"Sir Marco," his Captain practically shouted, his voice muffled and filled with annoyance, "_what_ is going on?"

"Tell me and we'll _both_ know," Lopez smartly replied.

Stanley reached up and slowly raised his helmet's visor. His eyes appeared and began to narrow into no nonsense slits.

Marco caught his Captain's stern gaze. "...Sir," he respectfully added. His visor fell, causing his companions to crack up—and lend new meaning to the term 'canned laughter'.

"What's the matter, Sir Marco?" came Kelly's muffled taunt. "Someone oil the hinges on your helmet…again?"

Lopez lifted his visor and gave his best buddy an annoyed glare.

"Say, Sir Marco," Mike Stoker suddenly spoke up, "isn't that Lady Diana's scarf?" he innocently inquired and pointed to the bright red piece of silk that was tied to Lopez's left wrist.

Marco glanced down. His visor fell, creating a whole nother round of 'canned laughter'. He was just about to voice his displeasure, when an unbelievably loud blast of trumpets sounded. He raised his visor and glanced around. "_What_ was _that_?"

"Well…there is the signal for the Tournament to begin," his Captain calmly announced. "...finally," he added, giving the late-arriving Lopez another annoyed glare. "Who goes first, _today_?"

"**Sir John**," everyone answered, in one muffled voice.

Sir John nudged his horse forward.

The Captain stared down at the young man's scarf-less left wrist. "What? No colors, today, Sir John?"

Lopez looked around and saw that everyone had a colorful scarf tied to their left wrist—everyone, that is, but Johnny.

Sir John hung his helmeted head and quietly confessed, "No, Sir Henry."

Marco gave his sad-sounding friend a deeply sympathetic look and opened his mouth to speak.

The trumpets sounded again.

Sir John drew his armored self up in his seat and directed his armored steed over to—and behind—a white chalk line that had been made in the grass.

Marco turned in his saddle to look down at the field's opposite end.

Seated upon a big, black horse, on the other end of the field, was another knight, wearing black armor—and carrying a ridiculously looooong, and incredibly sharp-pointed , wooden lance.

Lopez felt his stomach lurch. "**HOLD IT!**" he shouted, and five helmeted heads instantly swung in his direction. He aimed his alarmed gaze at one of them. "John, please tell me that you are **not **_really_ gonna go up against that guy…" he pleaded.

Gage gave his helmeted head a solemn nod.

Marco about fell out of his seat. "But you **can't**!" he insisted. "Johnny, you **can't** go up against that guy! You don't even have a _weapon_!"

"Sir John _never_ carries a weapon," Johnny's partner promptly pointed out.

Marco was now too mortified to speak.

The trumpets blared a third time.

The black-armored knight aimed his lance right at Sir John and nudged his horse forward.

Sir John held his prancing steed back until the black knight had reached mid-field. Then he released his tight rein and kicked his horse into high gear. The animal bolted off down the Tournament field, traveling at twice the speed of the black knight's horse.

Marco stared in disbelief. "He's really going through with it…" he numbly realized and turned to the Captain. "_Stop_ 'im, Cap! **Order** him to _stop_!"

But the Captain completely ignored him.

Lopez heard the crowd roar and turned back around, just in time to watch the black knight rein his horse in. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look down the field.

Sir John was still seated upon his horse and—incredibly—he still seemed to be in _one_ **un**damaged piece.

"How on earth—?" Marco muttered to himself.

The black knight swung his horse around and then started off down the field again.

Again, Gage waited at his end, with his steed impatiently pawing the ground.

Marco gasped—in both frustration and alarm. "Someone has gotta put a _stop_ to this, **before** Johnny gets himself _killed_!"

Nobody moved.

So Marco turned his horse toward the one-sided contest and kicked it in the ribs.

The beast bolted ahead and shot past the black knight's slow-moving plug, like it was standing still.

Marco _had _intended to place himself and his mount between the two combatants.

But his **un**trusty steed had 'other' plans.

"Stop!…STOP!…**STO-OP!**" Lopez yelled, at the top of his lungs, as they galloped on.

The two combatants weren't sure if he was screaming at them—or his runaway horse.

At any rate, Sir John was forced to rein _his_ steed in from its lightning charge, in order to avoid a collision with _Sir Marco's_.

The black knight took full advantage of the _situation_. Sir Marco's 'distraction' provided him with the perfect opportunity—to strike his now 'slow-moving' target.

Sir John ducked low over his steed's armored back and tried desperately to dodge the black knight's lance. But he was moving wa-ay too slowly, and the black knight's lance was too well aimed. It caught him a glancing blow to his left shoulder and completely dislodged him from his saddle. "**Ahhh-ahhh!**" Gage cried out in agony, as he was sent sailing off the back of his horse. An "Oo-oof!" escaped from the falling rider's tightly pursed lips, as his armored body hit the ground—_hard_.

Marco heard the crowd roar once more. He yanked on the bit in his stubborn steed's mouth, with all his might, and finally got it to stop—just as they were about to plow into the gaily bannered, spectator-filled bleachers on the edge of the field. He regained his seat, swung his helmeted head back around—and gasped in horror.

Sir John's horse was now rider-less. Johnny's armored body lay—motionless—on the grass in the center of the Tournament field.

**TBC**


	42. Chapter 42

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty-Two**

"Oh-oh no-o!" Marco groaned. "No no no no no!" He swung his horse's head around and gave it a good swift kick in the ribs.

The animal lurched ahead and went galloping up to—and almost right over—his friend's completely motionless form.

Marco reefed back on the reins and managed to get the obstinate beast stopped—about three feet short of the fallen rider's helmeted head. "Johnny?!" he anxiously called out, executing a less than graceful, and exceedingly noisy, dismount. "Johnny!" he repeated and dropped '_clankingly_' onto his metal-plated knees, on the grass beside the injured knight's still non-moving body.

John's suit of armor seemed to be **un**damaged.

Marco prayed that the same could be said for its contents. He reached out and raised the hinged visor on Sir John's metal helmet.

There was a grimace on Gage's face. But at least his eyes were open.

Marco heaved a huge sigh of relief and raised his slatted visor. "You gonna be okay, Johnny?"

His fallen friend inhaled sharply as his lungs finally began to function again. His open eyes narrowed into annoyed slits. "Why *gasp* did you have to *gasp* interfere?" he breathlessly demanded and attempted to prop himself up on his armored elbows.

Marco noticed that Johnny's left shoulder really seemed to be bothering him and lowered his head in shame. His visor fell. "I was just trying to keep that guy from _killing_ you," he explained and began helping his shaken associate up off the grass.

Well, actually, their suits of armor were so dang heavy, they ended up having to assist one another back up onto their feet.

"_Killing_ me?" Sir John incredulously inquired, once they were both standing again. "In over _thirty_ contests, Sir Brice has never so much as even _once_ come close to hitting me—until _today_," he annoyedly added and gave his bruised shoulder a rub.

Lopez looked extremely apologetic. "Gosh, I'm sorry, John. I didn't know." He gave his sore friend a concerned once over. "You hurt _bad_?"

Sir John heard the remorse in Sir Marco's voice and his grumpy expression softened. "Nahhh. I just had my wind knocked ou—" he stopped talking suddenly and stood there, staring sadly off toward the edge of the field.

Marco followed his friend's glum gaze and watched as Lady Catherine leaned out over the railing that ran in front of the bannered bleachers—and tied her bright blue scarf to the black knight's left wrist.

Sir Brice bowed his helmeted head to the young lady. Then he, and his doggy mount, left to take a victory lap around the Tournament field.

Sir John hung his helmeted head and went '_clanking_' off, in the direction of the courtyard, with his right hand clutching his injured left shoulder and his other armored shoulder sagging in defeat.

"Wait for me!" Marco called after him. However, before he take could take his leave, the kid with the lime-green leotards stepped in front of him.

The boy just stood there holding the wooden mounting block—and his horse's reins.

"Help me get this portable sardine can off of me. Will yah," Marco crankily requested.

"B-But you are up _next_, Sir Marco," the kid announced.

"I am _never_ getting back on that big, ugly nag _again_!" Marco vowed and aimed an angry glare in the evil-eyed animal's direction.

The horse curled its lower lip, and gave him another aloof snort.

Marco gave his **un**trusty steed one last sneer of disgust and then turned back to the boy in the lime-green leotards. "You hear me? I don't care _what_ Sir Henry says! This is _crazy_! I mean, this is ¡realmente loco! This is the _dumbest_ _thing_ I've ever heard of! Grown men actually trying to _kill_ each other! And for _what_? A lousy hunk of silk?!" Marco ripped Lady Diana's scarf from his wrist and threw it to the ground. "¡Olvídelo!" He heard the sound of galloping hooves and '_clanked_' around to investigate its source.

Sir Henry and his armored horse came skidding to stop. "What is the meaning of _this_?" the Captain demanded, and motioned to the bright red scarf, lying in the grass at Sir Marco's feet.

"I am **not** entering any 'contests'," Lopez resolutely declared. "…Sir."

Sir Henry was practically speechless. "Bu-ut…" he sputtered, "what about _chivalry_? And the _glory of_ _knighthood_?"

"What about 'em?" Marco smartly replied. "I happen to think that is all just sheer **stupidity**!…Sir."

Sir Henry raised the hinged visor on his helmet and gave the mutinous knight a riveting stare. "What about Lady Diana? Her 'honor' is at stake!"

Lopez looked completely unimpressed. "Well, now, ain't that just too bad!" he sarcastically stated. "You can tell her for me that, if her 'honor' hinges on whether or not I knock some poor joker on his…heinie, **she** can do the _knocking_! She'll have to do the knocking. Cuz I'm getting outta here—and outta this ridiculous 'Threepio' costu—"

"—But, Sir Marco," his Captain suddenly interrupted, "what about the _dragon_?"

"What dragon?"

"Why-y, the ruthless, fire-breathing dragon of Trumbley Moor, of course."

Lopez stared disbelievingly up at Stanley. "Cap, there's no such thing as a fire-breathing dragon."

Sir Henry's right eyebrow arched. "Oh really. Then _what_, pray tell, is **that**?" he wondered and pointed off across the Tournament field.

Marco swung his helmeted head in the direction of his Captain's pointing finger. He gazed out through the slats in his visor and watched, in shock and disbelief, as a fifty foot long, frog-green, scaly, dinosaur-type creature came crawling over the thick, tall hedge and out onto the Tournament field.

The mythical beast lashed its long jagged tail back and forth a few times. Then it opened its enormous jaws and spewed a twenty-foot stream of bright-orange flames from its mouth.

"¡Esto es una locura!" Marco exclaimed. He lifted his helmet's hinged visor and stared incredulously at the 'non-existent' fifty-foot creature. "There's no such thing," he numbly repeated.

Thick black clouds of smoke billowed from the beast's flared nostrils, as it 'stoked up the coals' for another breath of fire.

"Only **you** can battle the dragon, Sir Marco!" Sir Henry informed him.

Lopez felt his stomach lurch again. His head must have lurched right along with it, because his visor fell, again. "Why _only_ **me**?!" he demanded of his Captain.

Stanley stood there, looking completely perplexed. "I don't kno-ow..."

The creature crept a little closer. The dragon's beady little eyes suddenly riveted upon its adversary and it exhaled another twenty-foot stream of flames in the grounded knight's direction.

Even at a distance, Marco could feel the heat—clear through his suit of armor! He also felt someone tapping him on his metal-plated shoulder. He '_clanked_' back around.

The kid in the lime-green tights was still standing there holding that wooden mounting block—and his horse's reins.

The dragon shot another twenty-foot river of fire his way.

Marco glanced disdainfully at it…and then at his horse. Finally, he emitted an exasperated gasp and went '_clanking_' up to the closer of the two evil-eyed beasts.

The animal curled both of its lips back, this time and whinnied—in sort of a 'horsey' version of an evil chuckle.

"So…I _lied_!" Marco told his smug mount.

The boy grinned and set the wooden block down for him.

Marco gave the grinning kid a grumpy look. "What's so funny? I'm about to be _killed_, here. Yah know that?"

The boy instantly sobered. "Oh no-o, Sir Marco! You will be victorious! I am sure of it!"

Marco remained deeply skeptical. "And just what makes you so sure?"

The kid stood there, looking completely perplexed. "I do not kno-ow..."

Marco rolled his eyes and reluctantly stepped back up onto the mounting block.

The boy helped the knight up onto the enormous animal's back—again. Then he picked Lady Diana's dropped scarf up and offered it—and the horse's reins—to the reluctant rider.

Marco accepted the reins, but refused to take the scarf back. "The only 'honor' I intend to defend is _my own_!" He got all situated in his seat and then suddenly realized something. "Uhhh, Cap? What am I supposed to 'battle' it _with_?" he wondered and held up his weaponless hands.

Sir Henry pointed to the end of the field—opposite the dragon.

Marco glanced back over his shoulder—and then did a beautiful double-take.

A small group a' guys, wearing skirts and tights, came out onto the field—dragging an uncharged, inch-and-a-half fire hose?

Marco blinked in disbelief. For some reason, his _weapon_ just didn't seem to 'fit in'.

The dragon suddenly blew a fourth blast of flames his way.

'On second thought, maybe it _does_!' he silently realized and nudged his horse in the direction of the fire hose. "This is the _dumbest thing_ I've ever heard of," he repeated to himself.

* * *

Marco's steed was being uncharacteristically cooperative and he rode uneventfully up to the men with the hose.

They passed him up the nozzle.

Marco secured the limp hose under his left arm and gripped its nozzle firmly—with both hands.

The advancing dragon was rapidly drawing uncomfortably close.

Marco glared menacingly down at his mount. "You'd better stop when I say 'whoa-oah', horse! Or I'm gonna brain you between the ears with this nozzle!"

The animal tossed its head up and down and impatiently pawed the ground.

"Be ready to charge the line," Marco told his hose handlers.

The men nodded.

The fireman turned his full attention to his flaming foe…and reluctantly nudged his horse forward.

The animal snorted and then went charging leisurely off in the direction of the dragon.

* * *

Just as they were about to enter the dragon's 'firing range', Marco shouted, "Whoa-oah!" Much to his amazement, his mount stopped—dead, and he had everything he could do to keep himself from sailing over its head. Somehow, he was able to regain his seat. "Charge the line!" he called back over his armored shoulder, and opened up the nozzle.

Nothing happened.

Well, actually, something did happen. The dragon drew in a ridiculously deep breath and moved in for the kill. Its gi-normous jaws began to open…

"**Charge the line!**" the fireman frantically repeated.

Still nothing.

"**CHARGE THE LINE!**" Marco screamed—at the top of his lungs. The nozzle in his hands began to spit and sputter, as water _finally_ began to flush the air from the line. He felt the hose under his arm stiffen and braced himself for the water's backpressure. The precious liquid at last came gushing out and the fireman directed it at the dragon's now fully opened mouth.

The smoldering beast got a big mouthful of water and glared down at his adversary, looking 'steaming' mad.

Marco kept the nozzle's spray directed at the fire-breather's flaring nostrils.

The beast hissed…and snorted…and belched out great clouds of wispy, white smoke. But it could no longer produce even a 'flicker' of flame. The indignant, outraged animal then lashed out at his victorious foe with its jagged tail.

Marco grimaced and cried out in agony, as the dragon's tail dealt a tremendous blow to his raised wrist. His right hand and arm went completely numb from the pain. He felt the nozzle slip from his hands. He made a frantic grab for it…lost his balance…and went '_clanking_', helmeted head-first, clean out of his seat.

Just as he was about to hit the ground—the falling fireman jerked himself awake.

* * *

Mike and Karen and Chet had all glanced up, as their friend suddenly groaned in his sleep. Their concerned gazes had turned toward, and then remained riveted upon, Marco's hospital bed.

The groaning man emitted another pitiful moan. Then he gasped and finally woke up.

Lopez propped himself up on his elbows and took a confused look around. "The _dumbest thing_ I've ever heard of," he muttered to himself and dropped back down. But then he popped right back up again and gazed off across the ward, at Gage's empty hospital bed. "Where's Sir John?!" he anxiously inquired.

Kelly and Stoker exchanged amused glances. "_Sir_ John?" they both asked back—speaking in unison.

Marco emitted another groan and then fell back onto his bed again.

Chet's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh-oh you mean Sir _Jo-ohn_," he teased. "I, uh, imagine old Sir John is probably out there right now, patrolling the halls…making them safe for the 'fair damsels' in white. Sir John is like that, you know—chivalrous to the core!"

Marco groaned.

Chet grinned and turned back to Mike and Karen—who also seemed to be finding this whole 'Sir John' situation highly entertaining. The taunter's attention returned to the 'tauntee'. "Since his Lordship is unavailable at the moment, mayhaps perchance my humble self might be of some small service?"

"Yeah. You can help by _shutting up_," his best buddy teased right back and pulled the covers up over his head, to block his grinning amigo from his view.

Kelly turned back to the Stokers and waggled his bushy eyebrows a few times. "This is going to be _so-o_ much fun!"

"For _you_, maybe…" came back the pouting patient's muffled reply.

His friends' grins broadened.

**TBC**

**Author's note:**

"…¡realmente loco!" is Spanish for "…really crazy!"

"¡Olvídelo!" means: "Forget it!" in Spanish

'Threepio' is short for C-3PO

and "¡Esto es una locura!" is Spanish for "This is madness!"


	43. Chapter 43

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty-Three**

John's 'walk' had terminated in the second-floor's East stairwell.

He sat there on the landing's top step, staring blurrily off into space, looking lost in thought.

* * *

From the first moment John met Catherine Lyn Saunders, he was smitten with her.

A drunk driver had clipped her brand new Mercedes at an intersection, and Station 51 had responded to the call.

The young woman had been wearing her seatbelt. So she was shaken up, but otherwise uninjured.

Cathy was pretty…and witty…and kind—and, according to Kelly, 'completely out of his league'.

* * *

That is when fate, in the form of an L.A. TV Station, stepped in.

The TV station had recently provided each member of Station 51's A-Shift with two free tickets to the opera. Those two tickets provided the paramedic with the perfect opportunity to play in Miss Saunder's 'league'—even if it might only be for one evening.

* * *

When John mentioned the tickets to Miss Saunders, she told him she already had a date for Saturday.

Fate intervened again, however, when the young lady's date backed out on her.

* * *

Cathy called the fire station Saturday morning, just as John came on duty, and asked him if he was serious about his opera tickets offer.

John learned that it took a whole lot of phone calls, fast-talking and _bribing_ to get somebody to work a split shift for you. He finally managed to finagle Gregg Garnett into taking over for him.

He also learned that it wasn't exactly easy to rent a tux' on such short notice, and that 'opera glasses' were not things that were used for guzzling champagne—or seeing things in 3-D.

In short, he learned that Kelly was absolutely right about him being _out_ of Miss Saunder's league.

But John wasn't about to let a little thing like that deter him. Not when he was already 'smitten'!

* * *

John Gage opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the ceiling of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. "Oh-oh no-o," he groaned. He didn't—. He couldn't _really_ have _fallen aslee-eep_! The first-time opera-goer panicked and instantly sat straight up in his plush, velvet-upholstered seat. He was all by his lonesome.

Everybody had left the auditorium—including his date!

His date! "Cathy!" he despairedly exclaimed, his voice echoing in the opera hall's huge 'empty' chamber. John jumped to his feet and went racing out of the building.

* * *

The fireman found his date waiting for him out on the sidewalk.

To say that the young woman was 'fuming', would not have been an adequate description of the degree of her raging fury. "Did you have a nice nap?" Miss Saunders icily inquired.

John winced and then just stood there in his tuxedo, feeling tremendously embarrassed and looking extremely apologetic. "I'm sorry. Really, I am. I tried soooo hard not to be bored. Honest. But I just couldn't find anything _interesting_ about a bunch a' people screaming at each other—for two-and-a-half hours—in some language I couldn't even understand. I'm sorry," he repeated and hung his head in shame. "Chet's right. I'm just not the 'opera' type…" he quietly confessed, his sad words trailing off.

"What 'type' are you?" Cathy wondered, 'most' of the annoyance now gone from her voice.

Gage glanced sheepishly up at the forgiving girl and shrugged. The forlorn fireman finally chanced a bashful smile, which broadened into a grin upon noting that the no longer furious with him young woman was forced to return it. "You really wanna know the 'type' a' guy I am?"

Cathy nodded.

John pulled his vehicle's valet pass from his tux's right front pocket and passed it to a parking attendant.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Cathy asked, when the attendant returned with his Rover.

John took her by the elbow, ushered her up to his vehicle, and pulled its passenger door open for her. "Bowling."

Cathy balked. "You're joking, of course…" she stated sounding hopeful.

The bowler shook his head.

His date looked astonished. "Wha—dressed like _this_?"

John nodded.

"But…we can't go _bowling_ dressed like _this_!"

"Sure we can," he assured her and practically shoved her into her bucket seat.

"Why can't we just go out to dinner?" the woman wondered, as she pulled the vehicle's seatbelt across her evening-gowned lap. "Which is where most 'normal' people normally go after the opera."

John slipped in behind the wheel and closed his car door. "Oh. You're hungry, huh. We can order a pizza at the bowling alley." He saw that his date wasn't too thrilled with the idea and turned to face her. "Look, THEY may be doing what's 'normal' and 'proper'. But, I guarantee yah, we're gonna have more _fun_." The fireman buckled his tuxedo'd self in. He unfastened and removed his tie and then undid the top three or four buttons on his frilly, downright silly, white dress shirt. Gage gasped in relief and glanced at the girl, who was still sitting there, all 'prim' and 'proper' like—and looking terribly 'stuffy'. "C'mon!" he urged with a grin. "Let your hair down!"

Cathy dropped her elegant gloves and evening bag. Then she pulled out the pins that were keeping her hair in place and shook her pretty little head. Her long, auburn locks tumbled down onto her lovely bare shoulders. She leaned back in her bucket seat and exhaled a long, relaxed sigh—of relief. "Oh well," she reasoned aloud. "At least you didn't _snore_." She glanced in the driver's direction, and the two of them traded grins.

* * *

John could still see the look on the manager's face, when the two of them stepped into the bowling alley and asked if they could rent some shoes.

Nope! He would never forget that look…or the way Cathy would tip-toe up to the line, balancing the heavy ball in one hand, while trying to keep her long, lovely evening gown from causing her to fall flat on her face with the other…or the way she smiled when he picked her up in his arms and swirled her gracefully around, every time she managed to knock down some pins.

He didn't care if it caused the other patrons to stare. The way he figured it, people just weren't used to seeing such 'class' in a bowling alley.

Cathy said she was certain people thought the two of them were 'crazy'—not 'classy'.

He told her she had to be 'crazy', to drink champagne with pizza.

Cathy assured him that it wasn't bad at all, and suggested that he try it sometime.

So he promptly promised that he would be sure to take her out for champagne and pizza after every opera.

* * *

Cathy had found that most amusing. She had found the entire evening amusing—and every bit as much fun as he had promised her it would be.

* * *

The fireman suddenly found himself standing out on the concrete steps in front of Cathy's condo…

John draped the jacket of his tuxedo over his gorgeous date's bare shoulders and then stood there in the porch light, staring into the girl's incredibly blue eyes. "I don't know. I guess its all a matter of how you were raised. You see, I was deprived of all that 'high-brow', 'cultural' stuff. Tragically, the only opera house—on the entire Reservation—burned to the ground before I was even bor—" he stopped speaking, as Cathy suddenly let out a laugh and then playfully slugged him in the arm. "Wha-at?" he innocently inquired. "You don't believe me?"

The girl giggled again. Then she dug her key out of her evening bag and inserted it into the lock. She got the door open and then turned back to face him.

"The opera wasn't a total loss for me, yah know," John quietly confessed. "I did get to see you all decked out in your…mmmlovely evening gown…"

"Why, thank you," Cathy primly replied. "And I found you rather 'handsome' in your tux'. I, uh, also got to discover the 'type' of guy you are."

"Oh yeah? What 'type' a' guy am I?"

"_My_ type," Cathy confessed and flashed her gallant date a grin.

John was extremely relieved to hear that and immediately broke into a big ole grin, himself. "That—That's great! Because I also discovered the 'type' a' girl you are."

"You did?"

He nodded. "You are the type a' girl…I like…to kiss 'goodnight'," the fireman finished in a whisper. Then he took her tenderly into his arms and kissed her. WOW! The moment, the chemistry—everything seemed so-o…_right_!

Until it suddenly started raining—pouring, actually.

Cathy let out a shriek and ducked into her condo's entryway. She shook the raindrops from her hair and then offered him her hand—and an invitation to come in. When he hesitated, she extended her hand and the invitation to him again.

John stood there in the downpour, wishing he could've found a replacement that hadn't just finished pulling a double shift. "Thanks. But I gotta get back to work. Greg's prob'ly sittin' in the Station right now, wonderin' where I am."

"Oh. That's right. I forgot. That's why you didn't drink." Cathy suddenly realized that her date's jacket was still draped over her shoulders. She saw that the poor paramedic was now completely drenched, and promptly passed him back his only dry article of clothing.

She then thanked him for a 'really fun evening'.

He assured her that it was his pleasure and thanked her for her company.

The two of them just stood there for a while, giving one another long, lingering looks.

Finally, the fireman stepped down from the porch and slowly began backing his way over to his car…so slowly, that by the time he reached it, his jacket was also thoroughly soaked. "Can I see you again?" he called out to her, over the sound of the wind-driven rain.

Cathy gave him a huge grin and a definite nod. "I thought you'd _never_ ask!"

**TBC**


	44. Chapter 44

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty-Four**

John did see Cathy again…and again…and again…and again.

In fact, over the course of the next two months, the young couple saw an awful lot of each other.

Their relationship was really going well.

That is, until John bruised his kidneys and ribcage on the job…and suffered some serious rope burns to his hands…

* * *

The first hint of trouble came on the couple's first date, following his release from Rampart.

He'd made dinner reservations at a romantic little restaurant over on Hauser, after Marco had assured him that the place served 'the best Mexican food, this side of the Border'.

Cathy _loved_ Mexican food…

* * *

John's bandaged hands reached for an open wine bottle. "Would you like a refill?"

Cathy nodded and held her empty glass out to him. "How long do the doctors figure it will be, before you're able to go back to your fire station?" she tentatively inquired, as he topped it off.

Gage refilled his wineglass, as well, and then set the bottle back down. "The bandages come off Friday. If everything looks good, Morton says I'll be back at the Station next Monday," he noticed that his date seemed disappointed to hear that, and his grin turned upside-down. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she assured him, with a forced smile.

Cathy didn't like to lie, and so she wasn't very good at it.

The paramedic's bandaged right hand reached across the table and he gave the girl's bare wrist a reassuring squeeze. Her pulse was racing. "What's wrong?" he anxiously re-inquired.

"Nothing…_really_. I was just hoping that your new job—at headquarters—might become a little more _permanent_, is all."

John felt his own heart-rate increase, as the 'implication' of what she'd just managed to say fully registered with him. "Oh…I see."

Cathy didn't just want him to 'fill-in' for Sam, while he was out sick. She wanted him to become a _full-time dispatcher_.

Headquarters wasn't a bad place to visit. But he wouldn't want to **work** there—leastways, not on a more 'permanent' basis.

John gazed into his disappointed date's beautiful blue, candlelit eyes for quite a long, quiet while…and then nervously cleared his throat. "I, uh, really think that it's important for a person to love their job. I mean, I don't think it would be possible for a person to be truly happy, if they didn't like what they were doing for a living. Wouldn't you agree?"

Cathy couldn't deny the veracity of his statement. So she forced another sad smile and nodded her pretty little head.

* * *

Just two short months later…

John found himself lying in yet another hospital bed.

He'd suffered a serious concussion—in a partial building collapse—and the doctors had in him a drug-induced coma. Well, at least they 'thought' they had him in a coma.

He was completely unable to move—couldn't even so much as flutter an eyelid.

But his ears were still functioning—just fine, and his brain—while badly bruised—continued to _clearly_ register every disturbing sound around.

Of course, because the patient 'appeared' to be **un**conscious, visitors had no way of knowing that.

Roy knew, though. Roy always seemed to know, and so he would read to him. His partner put his book down and then said he would be right back—following a brief bathroom break.

Roy refused to ignore the 'FOR PATIENT USE ONLY' sign on his bathroom door, choosing instead, to walk clear down past the Nurses' Station, to the public restroom at the opposite end of the hall.

* * *

While his partner was visiting the little boy's room, Cathy came in.

He knew it was Cathy, because his nose was also working.

Cathy wasn't much into perfume. But she used the most delicious-smelling shampoo.

Her hair always smelled really _really_ good—good enough to eat.

Cathy sat down in Roy's vacated seat, picked up his limp, left hand and held onto it for dear life. "Hi there," she managed to say, with some semblance of calm. But then her brave demeanor crumbled. "Oh…gawd," she exclaimed, the tone of her voice reflecting the pain and anguish she felt upon finding him in such critical condition. "Oh, gawd!" she shakily repeated. "I can't bear to see you like this!" she confessed, and began crying into her folded arms.

He couldn't bear to hear her crying. A single tear left the corner of his eye and slid silently down the right side of his impassive face.

"I used to be insanely jealous of your 'precious' job," Cathy quietly continued, once she'd regained some semblance of her composure, "because I knew it meant as much—or more—to you than I did." She paused again, to regroup. "I now realize that the reason your job is so 'precious' to you, is because **people's lives** are so _precious_ to you. Being a fireman/paramedic isn't just _what_ you are, it's _who_ you are," her quivering voice gave way and she broke down crying again. "I…I love you, John," she somehow managed to get out—between sobs and sniffles. "I'll _always_ love you," she shakily assured him. "But I…I just can't stand to see you hurt. I know, now, that I could never be _married_ to someone who lives as dangerously you do…" she choked back her sobs and forced herself to continue, "and I can't ask you to live any other way. I _won't _ask you to give up being who you are! I **love** _who_ you are!"

If his lovely visitor's vision hadn't been so unbelievably blurry, she might have noticed that the patient's respiration rate was now rapid, shallow and irregular, and that a trail of tears had appeared on both sides of his otherwise impassive face.

Cathy rose up from the chair and then stood there, sniffling. "I…I gotta be going. A friend of mine is waiting downstairs, to drive me to the airport. I'm…moving back to Massachusetts…Goodbye, John." That said, the young woman leaned over his perfectly still form, and planted a 'farewell' kiss on his forehead.

One of her tears fell upon his seemingly impassive face and mingled with the now steady stream of his own.

Cathy met up with his partner in the doorway. "Goodbye, Roy. Take care…of him—and yourself."

"I will," his partner promised.

On the outside, John was crying. On the inside, he was dying.

That burning building wasn't the only thing that had fallen down around him. His whole world had just collapsed.

* * *

Speaking of his partner…

The sound of someone coming up the steps forced John from his reveries. He glanced down and was pleasantly surprised to find his best friend standing there on the stairs, with an HT in his hand.

Roy always took the stairs to the second floor when he was on duty, because his visiting time was limited and the elevator was so goshdarn slow.

The two of them locked gazes.

Upon seeing that his buddy's eyes were brimming with tears, DeSoto's blue eyes filled with concern. He didn't have to ask his partner if he was okay. He could clearly see that he wasn't.

John saw the concern on his friend's face and flashed him a sad, slightly crooked smile. Then he buried his own tear-streaked face in his hands and asked Roy the question he'd been asking himself for the past six months. "Why-y? Why-y, when the **right** girl _finally_ comes along, _why_ do I gotta turn out to be the **wrong** guy?"

Johnny had a tendency to toss his deepest feelings into an 'emotional closet'. His feelings would just keep right on piling up in there, til there was no more room.

Then some exceptionally 'traumatic' event would occur. That closet door would pop open and all of those strong, stacked up feelings of his would come spilling out.

Johnny would then just 'clean up the mess'…and move on.

Roy wondered what exceptionally 'traumatic' event had caused that closet door to open up _this_ time.

Something _had_ to have happened, to get his recuperating partner to go AWOL from his hospital bed to hide out in a stairwell…

The on-duty paramedic climbed another two steps up and placed a comforting hand on his sadder than sad friend's slumped shoulder. "You _were_ the **right** guy, Johnny," Roy softly assured him. "She just turned out to be the **wrong** girl."

Johnny was just about to say something, when he was interrupted by the '_bleeping_' HT.

The two paramedics exchanged a couple of 'Isn't this typical?' looks.

"**Squad 51…standby for a response…"**

DeSoto aimed a stern gaze, and his right index finger, in his AWOL associate's direction. "Don't. Move!" he commanded.

Gage couldn't help but grin. "If I _stay_, do I get a doggie biscuit?"

Roy returned his grin. "No. But I promise you'll get something if you _move_," he teased and turned his pointing finger into a knuckle sandwich.

His buddy's grin broadened. "Be careful, huh…"

"Always," the on-duty paramedic promised. DeSoto flashed his friend a final smile. Then he turned and disappeared back down the stairs.

* * *

Less than a minute later, the fire door at the bottom of the stairwell reopened and Dixie McCall appeared.

Dixie studied the sad, lonely soul, seated on the top step of the second-floor landing for a few moments. It broke her heart to see her young friend hurting so. "Mind if I come up?"

The paramedic replied to the pretty RN's inquiry with a quick, light-hearted question of his own. "Do you promise not to lecture me on the perils of leaving my hospital bed?"

Dixie had to struggle desperately to keep a straight face. "I promise."

"Then you may come up," Johnny regally allowed and began brushing off a place for her to sit down on his 'throne' step.

"I'm not here in my 'official' nurse capacity, anyway." Dixie reached the top of the stairs and assumed her assigned seat beside him. "I came as a friend," she quietly confessed, and gave her friend's shoulder a playful nudge.

The two of them just sat there like that for the next ten minutes—neither one of them saying a word.

* * *

"Dix?" John finally spoke up.

"Yeah, Johnny?"

"Do you think you could turn back into a nurse now…and help me get back to my room?"

"Oh-oh, I think I could manage that," Dixie warmly replied and gave her patient's no longer sagging right shoulder another playful shove.

"Truth be told," Johnny continued, as Dixie assisted him to his bare feet and turned him carefully around, "I don't think I'm quite ready to be out of bed yet."

"Is that so," the pretty nurse played along. She helped him back up onto the landing, through the fire door and out into the corridor.

"Besides," John continued, "THEY didn't say that I could get out of bed yet. And, believe me, THEY know _everything_." He stared off down the loooooong hospital hallway. "Good heavens! How did I ever manage to make it this far, in the first place? Why, I could've passed out…hit my head on something…and really hurt myself." He stopped talking as Dixie suddenly stopped walking.

The nurse gave him a sideways roll of her eyes.

He beamed her back a broad grin. "I knew…deep down…that you were just _dying_ to say all those things. And, since I made you promise **not** to say them, I figured I'd say them for you."

The woman released the smile she'd been suppressing, along with a weary sigh. "You're incorrigible. You know that?"

"Yes. I do," the paramedic shamelessly confessed.

Miss McCall's smile broadened into a grin and she bumped him again, this time, with her hip.

* * *

Everyone in the four-bed ward watched as Dixie McCall guided Gage over—and back in—to his hospital bed.

"Behold!" Kelly dramatically declared. "Sir John returneth!" The fireman fixed his gaze upon the beautiful blonde ER nurse. "And dig the 'fair damsel' that rescueth him…"

The guys grinned and snickered.

"Someone needs to be transferred to the 'psyche' ward," John immediately determined and flashed the 'fair damsel' a wry, sly smile.

Dixie returned his grin and tucked him in. "Be more specific," she teased. "That could be any one of the four _goofy_ guys in this ward."

The 'four goofy guys' glanced at one another…and grinned.

**TBC**


	45. Chapter 45

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty-Five**

Later that same day…

Mike Morton and Dixie McCall stepped out of the elevator on the hospital's second floor and started heading toward the four-bed ward at the end of the corridor.

They were about to go 'off-duty'. But they both wanted to pay the ward's occupants a final visit, prior to heading for home.

"I don't think Kelly is quite ready to begin physical therapy just yet," the young doctor determined, as the two of them walked along. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Miss McCall whole-heartedly concurred. "But you may want to consider _releasing_ the other three."

"What makes you say that? They didn't seem to be any better when I looked in on them this morning. They still appeared to be completely physically exhausted."

The RN's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yeah. Well…Let's just say that things have gotten a lot more…_interesting_ since then."

The nurse's comment piqued the doctor's curiosity, causing him to cock an eyebrow.

Just as the two of them reached their destination, a distraught nurse came backing out into the hall.

The woman was carrying a meal tray—piled high with empty soda bottles and cardboard food containers. "Welcome to 'The Spider Web'," she greeted the pair, sounding every bit as frazzled as she looked.

Morton's other eyebrow shot up.

* * *

The physician started to enter 'The Spider Web', but then stopped—right in the middle of the doorway. Morton just stood there, staring around the four-bed ward in both shock and disbelief.

The four firefighters seemed to be in the middle of some kind of card game. There were strands and strands of store string strung between their hospital beds, and the patients were, apparently, using the complex network of strings to pass one another playing cards.

"What is the meaning of this?!" the young doctor demanded.

The card players cringed and promptly ducked beneath their covers.

"What on earth is going on in here?!" Morton re-demanded.

John Gage poked his head up out of his bed sheet. "Uhhh…Hi doc'," he sheepishly replied. "We were, uh, just havin' a friendly little card game."

His fellow firefighters' heads slowly reappeared and then nodded.

Gage saw that Morton remained dissatisfied with his explanation, and immediately went into a defensive mode. "Well, THEY wouldn't let us get out of bed! And we were **bored**! _Really_ bored!" He motioned to their 'web'. "So-o, we decided to let our 'fingers' do the walking," the really bored fireman further explained, looking quite pleased and rather proud.

The web's engineers glanced at one another and grinned.

Morton glared icily back at them.

Their grins vanished.

The doctor stood there, looking like he was counting to ten. "I repeat…" he said, sounding a tad bit calmer,"what is the meaning of…_" _he gave the strung strings a distasteful glance, "_this_?"

"We've invented a new game," Chet informed the grumpy physician. "It goes along the same lines as 'Go Fish'. But we call _our_ version 'You Wish'." He studied the cards in his hands for a few moments and then turned to Gage. "Is it my turn yet?"

"You wish!" the paramedic replied. He pulled two playing cards from the string running between his bed and Stoker's and stuck them in his hand. "Thank you, Michael." He looked up at Lopez. "Marco, give me all your Cheryl Tiegs…"

Marco glanced at his cards and grinned. "You wish!"

A central string was attached to each of the patients' beds' headboards, using a traction bar. Clipped to this central string, were dozens of playing cards.

John tugged on this central string, pulled a playing card up to his hospital bed and snatched onto it. "Ah-ha! Ah-ha! I got a Cheryl Tieg!" Upon seeing that his fellow card players seemed skeptical, he held the card up for all to see, before finally placing it in his hand. He reeled another card in from the central line, scrutinized it for a few moments, and then turned to Kelly. "_Now_, it's your turn."

Kelly looked positively delighted and beamed a big, smug smile at Stoker. "Mikey, give me all your Ferrah Fawcetts."

Stoker looked positively shattered.

Morton looked more than a little curious. He ducked under the string web, stepped up to Stoker's bed, and stared down at the playing cards in his hands. The flabbergasted physician watched as Mike reluctantly removed three cards—bearing bikini-clad photos of Ferrah Fawcett—from the assorted collection of skimpily-clad models in his hand, and clipped them to one of the three strings that were strung around the top bar of the side-railing on his hospital bed…with a bobbypin? He glanced up and saw that Chet was now reeling the cards in. The young physician was feeling too 'overwhelmed' for words. He slowly swung his head around, to stare disbelievingly at Dixie.

Miss McCall seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty maintaining a straight face. "See what I mean?"

* * *

One lecture—some major room revamping—and fifteen 'boring' minutes later…

John Gage glanced glumly around their 'web-less' hospital ward. "Two hours!" he exclaimed, sounding as miffed as he looked. "It took us _two hours_ to set it up and get all the kinks out of the system. And it only took Morton a lousy _two minutes_ to 'snip' it all down!"

Chet gave his glum chum a sympathetic glance. "At least he promised to give you your cards back, when you guys get discharged."

Marco stared sadly at the center of the ward, now completely devoid of their network of strings. "It was a thing of _beauty_, though. Wasn't it? A real example of engineering ingenuity!"

His fellow firefighters were forced to nod.

But John was not to be comforted. "He could've at least waited until we finished the game!"

Again, his shiftmates were forced to nod glumly in agreement.

Stoker picked a newspaper up from his medicine stand. "Let's see what's on TV…" He flipped through the paper, ran down the program listings…and frowned. "Trash!"

Kelly's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Hmmm…sounds 'spicy'. What channel is it on?"

The guys grinned.

Mike glanced down at the paper again. "All of them."

Their grins broadened.

"What's on—_besides_ 'trash'," Marco inquired.

Mike glanced down at the program listings again. "Nothing."

Chet suppressed a smile. "Sounds a little 'dull'. I think I'll pass on that one."

The guys exchanged grins again. But then their amused expressions slowly vanished. Their glum gazes returned to the center of the ward and they exhaled audible sighs—of extreme _ennui_.

**TBC**


	46. Chapter 46

"A Work In Progress"

**Chapter Forty-Six**

The four bored, bedridden firemen had an interesting—and rather heated—game of 'Toss The Numbered Tongue Depressors Into The Stainless-steel Bedpan' going.

That is, until an orderly stepped on one of the errant wooden wafers, slipped and nearly took a header into a doorpost.

The target—er, bedpan was quickly confiscated.

* * *

The disappointed tongue depressor tossers then attempted to keep themselves entertained with an 'Arts and Crafts' project.

The goal was to build a recognizable piece of firefighting apparatus, utilizing nothing but bits and pieces of tangled store string…and boxes of Kleenex tissues.

Mike, who had every square inch of his beloved 'Big Red' firmly committed to memory, turned his two boxes of tissues into an amazing replica of Engine 51—replete with side-mounted ladders and hose lines lying in the hose bed.

John was able to successfully assemble a reasonable facsimile of a rescue squad, complete with a light bar on the roof of the truck's cab and spare air bottles in back.

Marco's arts and crafts project proved to be a bit ambitious. Even with Gage and Kelly's leftover Kleenex, he ran out of tissues and ended up turning his snorkel rig into a regular ladder truck.

Chet built what he 'claimed' was a Chief's car.

The rest of the guys were forced to take his word for it.

All four firemen then went back to being bored…really bored.

* * *

Fifteen mind-numbingly boring minutes later…

Hank Stanley poked his head into the room. "I see the 'spiders'. But where's the 'web'?"

Upon spotting their 'on-duty' Captain standing in the doorway with an HT in his hand, the four moping firemen's moods immediately perked up.

"Cap!" Chet Kelly declared. "What are _you_ doin' here? You ain't _hurt_…or nothin'?" he hopefully inquired.

"We were assisting 23's with a garage fire over on Meredith," Stanley informed his concerned-looking recuperating crew. "And, since we were already 'in the neighborhood', I decided I'd drop by and see how you guys are doin'. Just one a' the many perks of bein' a Captain," he added and pointed to the bugles on the collar of his uniform.

His guys traded grins. They knew that Meredith was no where _near_ to being 'in the neighborhood'.

Hank glanced around the room again. "So…where's the 'web'?"

His men pointed to the floor beside the door.

There was a small wastebasket between the open portal and Stoker's hospital bed. The tiny container was currently overflowing with gobs of tangled store string.

"What _happened_ to it?" their Captain inquired, disappointment clearly evident in his voice.

"Dr. Morton 'happened' to it," John replied, still sounding extremely dismayed.

The other men managed glum nods.

The Captain took in his crew's 'arts and crafts' projects. "Sheesh! You guys _are_ bored. Are-en't you…"

His guys looked even glummer.

"Yeah…well," Hank flashed John, Mike and Marco each a sympathetic smile, "rumor has it, that the three of you _may_ be **released** in the morning."

Gage, Stoker and Lopez looked elated.

Their Captain looked pleased. "So get a good night's sleep, and I'll stop by again, right after the shift…just in case you guys need a lift." Hank couldn't help but notice that, at the mention of 'a good night's sleep', his guys' faces had filled with gloom and doom again. His own face filled with concern. "What's the matter? Are you having trouble sleeping?" Though the question was posed to all three of his suddenly unhappy crewmen, his troubled gaze locked on Gage.

John nervously cleared his throat. "Ah-ah…no. No, Cap. I been sleeping just fine." He saw that his superior wasn't buying it and reluctantly came clean. "I, uh, just had a really…_weird_ dream, is all."

"Me, too!" Mike and Marco chimed together.

Hank's anxiety level soared up a notch or two. "What d'yah mean 'weird'?"

Gage shrugged. "I dunno…I just never had a dream like that before. It was…just…so—"

"—Realistic?" Mike inserted.

The three 'realistic' dreamers exchanged amazed glances.

"Yeah!" Gage agreed. "It was more like a bad B Western movie, than a dream."

Lopez nodded vehemently in agreement. "Exactly! It was just like being in a movie."

The Captain gave each of the 'dreamers' a concerned once over…and then crossed over to Kelly. "What about you, Chester? Been having any 'weird' dreams lately?"

"No weirder than usual, Cap," Chet assured him.

Hank was forced to smile. But his smile quickly faded and his full attention returned to the remainder of his hospitalized crew. "Do your doctors know about these…dreams?" 'They will soon enough,' he silently resolved, upon seeing the three forlorn firemen shaking their heads. Stanley started heading for the exit. "Well, hang in there," he encouraged. "And I'll see you all again in the morning. I'll bring you your 'civies'." The Captain paused in the open doorway for a moment. "Oh…and…_sweet_ dreams," he solemnly wished.

His guys flashed him back some grateful grins and bid him a 'Goodnight', as well.

Hank gave each of them one last deeply concerned glance—and then he was gone.

* * *

Less than an hour after Captain Stanley left, Dr. James Hendelson came strolling into the ward. "So…how's everybody doing?"

The four firemen greeted the grinning physician with half-hearted smiles and 'Okay's.

The toxicologist's smile faded fast. "Your Captain tells me that you've been experiencing some rather 'disturbing'—and entirely too realistic—dreams. He's concerned that this may be a lingering side effect of your DMCST exposure."

The three 'poisoned' patients exchanged solemn glances.

Gage then directed his anxious gaze back to the young doctor. "Are _you_?"

The physician opened his growing DMCST folder. "The heat treatments rendered the toxin inert. But they did not destroy it…_entirely_. I'm 'guessing' that—as the blood began to absorb and remove the toxic residue from the brain—it 'somehow' triggered these _hallucinatory_ dreams."

The disturbed dreamers traded grave glances.

"How long will it take to remove the toxic residue…_entirely_?" Mike asked, sounding every bit as anxious as he looked.

The young doctor glanced up from his notes. "I'm 'hoping' that it is now completely gone. However, since I've been granted temporary privileges here…I took the liberty of prescribing a little 'something' that will provide the three of you with a **dreamless**, restful night's sleep. You're gonna need all the rest you can get. Word on the floor is, that they're gonna be giving you guys 'the boot' tomorrow morning. It may also interest you to know that copies of your medical records are being sent to Washington, D.C.."

"Who wants to see them?" Stoker innocently inquired. "Dyer and Esch?"

Hendelson appeared somewhat astonished. "You guys are _familiar_ with Drs. Dyer and Esch?"

"Isn't everybody?" Marco teased.

His fellow firefighters were forced to grin.

The young physician was even more flabbergasted.

John pulled one of the periodicals from the stack on his med' stand and explained about the magazine article they'd recently read.

The look on Hendelson's face went from 'completely perplexed' to 'duly impressed'. The doctor proceeded to give the firemen an impromptu—and extremely interesting—lecture on the Dyer/Esch Report. "Of course," he summed up, "you won't be mentioned by 'name'. But your case files will definitely be included in their next report."

"Anonymous celebrities!" Kelly lightly declared. "Instead of autographs, I'll just ask you guys for your case file numbers."

The 'anonymous celebrities' glanced at one another and rolled their eyes.

* * *

True to his word, Hank Stanley showed up at the hospital as soon as he was off-shift. He handed each of the 'dischargees' a bag, containing their civilian clothes, and then dropped into a chair…to wait. The Captain intended to give his crew a lift back to the Station, so they could pick up their parked cars. Hank was tremendously relieved to hear that his men had enjoyed a relatively peaceful night.

While waiting for their discharge papers to be processed, the three soon to be freed firemen regaled their Captain with just the 'gist' of their hallucinatory dreams—er, nightmares.

Hank was amazed to hear that he had actually played a role in each of their 'too realistic' dreams, as a Roman Centurion, a Captain in the United States Cavalry and a Knight in shining armor. His engineer then passed him a copy of the latest 'Popular Mechanics' magazine and suggested that he read a certain article of interest.

* * *

Gage slipped his shirt on and promptly rolled its sleeves up past his elbows. The paramedic then stood there, staring sadly down at his bare forearms. His wrists were scarred up from all of the IV needles they'd been subjected to. "Sheesh!" He glanced up and locked gazes with Kelly, who was being uncharacteristically quiet. "I should prob'ly start wearing my sleeves rolled down. Anybody sees these needle marks, they'll think I'm a 'hype', for sure!"

Chet forced a smile.

John finished dressing and stepped up to his moody friend's bedside. "I'll be back tonight…for a visit."

His glum chum nodded.

"Seems sort a' strange. Don't it?" John continued. "I'm the one who's usually stuck in the bed, and you're the one doing the visiting."

Chet forced another smile. "I'd rather be the visitor than the visitee—anyday!"

Gage gripped the visitee's left shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "The next few weeks will fly by so fast, you'll be out of that cast before yah even know it."

Kelly gave him an 'Oh, brother' look.

"I know," John came clean. "When you said that to me, I didn't buy it, either."

This time, Chet didn't have to try quite so hard to smile.

"I'm leaving you my magazines," John continued, "and a certain extra ordinary deck of playing cards."

"Thanks. Before you go, will you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Will you please tell me what I _signed_ to you the other night?"

Gage couldn't help but grin. "Okay. What were you _trying_ to sign?"

Kelly's eyes took on a mischievous glint. "Sit on it, John-boy!"

"Yeah? Well…that's probably exactly what you did sign," the paramedic shamelessly confessed.

Chet's bottom jaw dropped open.

* * *

"What do you think, Cap?" Mike asked, as his Captain completed the article and closed the magazine. "Think that guy's right? That this job is a lot more dangerous today, than at any other time in history?"

Hank thought his reply over for a few moments. "As fires become deadlier, tools, techniques and training improve. As the nature of fires changes, we adapt right along with it. Firefighting is truly a work in progress—"

"—Of all the lowdown, sneaky, conniving," Chet Kelly exclaimed, when he could finally speak again.

The Captain's head swung in Gage and Kelly's direction.  


* * *

Chet paused in his rant, to give the wryly-grinning paramedic a glare that was an equal mixture of admiration and envy.

"It was. Wasn't it," John admitted, not sounding even the teensiest bit repentant. "It's the company I keep."

* * *

  
Hank turned back to his engineer. "The, uh, _firefighters_ are also 'a work in progress'," he teased, and the two of them traded grins.

** THE END**


End file.
